Betsy reached her arms up longingly and the
old woman stooped over her. Neither of them said a single word during
the long embrace which followed. Then Aunt Abigail straightened up
hastily, took her candle very quickly and softly, and heavily padded out
of the room.
Betsy turned over and flung one arm over Molly--no Molly, either, after
tomorrow!
She gulped hard and stared up at the ceiling, dimly white in the
starlight. A gleam of light shone under the door. It widened, and Uncle
Henry stood there, a candle in his hand, peering into the room. "You
awake, Betsy?" he said cautiously.
"Yes. I'm awake, Uncle Henry."
The old man shuffled into the room. "I just got to thinking," he said,
hesitating, "that maybe you'd like to take my watch with you. It's kind
of handy to have a watch on the train. And I'd like real well for you to
have it."
He laid it down on the stand, his own cherished gold watch, that had
been given him when he was twenty-one.
Betsy reached out and took his hard, gnarled old fist in a tight grip.
"Oh, Uncle Henry!" she began, and could not go on.
"We'll miss you, Betsy," he said in an uncertain voice. "It's
been ... it's been real nice to have you here ..."
And then he too snatched up his candle very quickly and almost ran out
of the room.
Betsy turned over on her back. "No crying, now!" she told herself
fiercely.
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