How pretty she was! And
how young--under the veil which hid so kindly all the little lines in
her sweet, thin face. And how excited and fluttery! Betsy had forgotten
how fluttery Aunt Frances was! She clasped Betsy to her, and then
started back crying--she must see to her suitcase--and then she clasped
Betsy to her again and shook hands with Uncle Henry, whose grim old face
looked about as cordial and welcoming as the sourest kind of sour
pickle, and she fluttered back and said she must have left her umbrella
on the train. "Oh, Conductor! Conductor! My umbrella--right in my seat--
a blue one with a crooked-over--oh, here it is in my hand! What am I
thinking of!"
The conductor evidently thought he'd better get the train away as soon
as possible, for he now shouted, "All aboard!" to nobody at all, and
sprang back on the steps. The train went off, groaning over the steep
grade, and screaming out its usual echoing warning about the next road
crossing.
Uncle Henry took Aunt Frances's suitcase and plodded back to the surrey.
He got into the front seat and Aunt Frances and Betsy in the back; and
they started off.
And now I want you to listen to every single word that was said on the
back seat, for it was a very, very important conversation, when Betsy's
fate hung on the curl of an eyelash and the flicker of a voice, as fates
often do.
Aunt Frances hugged Betsy again and again and exclaimed about her having
grown so big and tall and fat--she didn't say brown too, although you
could see that she was thinking that, as she looked through her veil at
Betsy's tanned face and down at the contrast between her own pretty,
white fingers and Betsy's leather-colored, muscular little hands.
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