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Page 52
Betsy went out of the dusky barn into the rich, October splendor and saw
none of it. She went straight away from the house and the barn, straight
up into the hill-pasture toward her favorite place beside the brook, the
shady pool under the big maple-tree. At first she walked, but after a
while she ran, faster and faster, as though she could not get there soon
enough. Her head was down, and one arm was crooked over her face ... .
And do you know, I'm not going to follow her up there, nor let you go.
I'm afraid we would all cry if we saw what Betsy did under the big
maple-tree. And the very reason she ran away so fast was so that she
could be all by herself for a very hard hour, and fight it out, alone.
So let us go back soberly to the orchard where the Putneys are, and wait
till Betsy comes walking listlessly in, her eyes red and her cheeks
pale. Cousin Ann was up in the top of a tree, a basket hung over her
shoulder half full of striped red Northern Spies; Uncle Henry was on a
ladder against another tree, filling a bag with the beautiful, shining,
yellow-green Pound Sweets, and Aunt Abigail was moving around, picking
up the parti-colored windfalls and putting them into barrels ready to go
to the cider-mill.
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. She had found there a certainty that, whatever else she did,
she must NOT hurt Aunt Frances's feelings--dear, gentle, sweet Aunt
Frances, whose feelings were so easily hurt and who had given her so
many years of such anxious care. Something up there had told her--
perhaps the quiet blue shadow of Windward Mountain creeping slowly over
the pasture toward her, perhaps the silent glory of the great red-and-
gold tree, perhaps the singing murmur of the little brook--perhaps all
of them together had told her that now had come a time when she must do
more than what Cousin Ann would do--when she must do what she herself
knew was right. And that was to protect Aunt Frances from hurt.
When she spoke, out there in the orchard, she broke the spell of
silence. Cousin Ann climbed hastily down from her tree, with her basket
only partly filled. Uncle Henry got stiffly off his ladder, and Aunt
Abigail advanced through the grass. And they all said the same thing--
"Let me see that letter."
They read it there, looking over each other's shoulders, with grave
faces. Then, still silently, they all turned and went back into the
house, leaving their forgotten bags and barrels and baskets out under
the trees. When they found themselves in the kitchen--"Well, it's
suppertime, anyhow," said Cousin Ann hastily, as if ashamed of losing
her composure, "or almost time. We might as well get it now."
"I'm a-going out to milk," said Uncle Henry gruffly, although it was not
nearly his usual time. He took up the milk pails and marched out toward
the barn, stepping heavily, his head hanging.
Shep woke up with a snort and, getting off the couch, gamboled clumsily
up to Betsy, wagging his tail and jumping up on her, ready for a frolic.
That was almost too much for Betsy! To think that after tomorrow she
would never see Shep again--nor Eleanor! Nor the kittens! She choked as
she bent over Shep and put her arms around his neck for a great hug. But
she mustn't cry, she mustn't hurt Aunt Frances's feelings, or show that
she wasn't glad to go back to her. That wouldn't be fair, after all Aunt
Frances had done for her!
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