Something about the way Betsy walked, and as she drew closer something
about the expression of her face, and oh! as she began to speak,
something about the tone of her voice, stopped all this cheerful
activity as though a bomb had gone off in their midst.
"I've had a letter from Aunt Frances," said Betsy, biting her lips, "and
she says she's coming to take me away, back to them, tomorrow."
There was a big silence; Cousin Ann stood, perfectly motionless up in
her tree, staring down through the leaves at Betsy. Uncle Henry was
turned around on his ladder, one hand on an apple as though it had
frozen there, staring down at Betsy. Aunt Abigail leaned with both fat
hands on her barrel, staring hard at Betsy. Betsy was staring down at
her shoes, biting her lips and winking her eyes. The yellow, hazy
October sun sank slowly down toward the rim of Hemlock Mountain, and
sent long, golden shafts of light through the branches of the trees upon
this group of people, all so silent, so motionless.
[Illustration: Betsy was staring down at her shoes, biting her lips and
winking her eyes.]
Betsy was the first to speak, and I'm very proud of her for what she
said. She said, loyally, "Dear Aunt Frances! She was always so sweet to
me! She always tried so hard to take care of me!"
For that was what Betsy had found up by the brook under the big red
maple-tree.
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