"O my love, my love," she whispered to the ground.
Miss Lydia called her from the house, and she went to her with some loose
roses in her muslin apron. "Did you call me, Aunt Lydia?" she asked,
lifting her radiant eyes to the old lady's face. "I haven't gathered very
many leaves."
"I wanted you to pot some white violets for me, dear," answered Miss Lydia,
from the back steps. "My winter garden is almost full, but there's a spot
where I can put a few violets. Poor Mr. Bill asked for a geranium for his
window, so I let him take one."
"Oh, let me pot them for you," begged Betty, eager to be of service. "Send
Petunia for the trowel, and I'll choose you a lovely plant. It's too bad to
see all the dear verbenas bitten by the frost." She tossed a rose into Miss
Lydia's hands, and went back gladly into the garden.
A fortnight after this the Major came over and besought her to return with
him for a week at Chericoke. Mrs. Lightfoot had taken to her bed, he said
sadly, and the whole place was rapidly falling to rack and ruin. "We need
your hands to put it straight again," he added, "and Molly told me on no
account to come back without you. I am at your mercy, my dear."
"Why, I should love to go," replied Betty, with the thought of Dan at her
heart. "I'll be ready in a minute," and she ran upstairs to find her
mother, and to pack her things.
The Major waited for her standing; and when she came down, followed by
Petunia with her clothes, he helped her, with elaborate courtesy, into the
old coach before the portico.
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