At dinner both George and his mother were perfectly composed and polite. Neither the children nor the servants knew that anything was the matter until Betty betrayed it. But little Betty’s heart was so full for George’s disappointment that she could not eat her dinner, and tears dropped upon her plate. Towards the last of the dinner one of the little boys suddenly exclaimed: “Brother, I saw you in your uniform this morning; are you going to wear it every day?” At this Betty burst into a loud sob, and, getting up from the table, rushed to George and threw her arms about him. George rose and led the weeping girl out of the room. Usually such an infraction of discipline and table manners as George and Betty leaving the table without permission would have been strictly prohibited. But their mother saw that these two young souls were wrought up to the keenest distress, and as she had gained her victory she could afford to be magnanimous. “Betty,” said George, hurriedly, when they got out of the room, “put on your hood, and let us go into the woods. It makes one feel better, when one is sad, to go into the woods.” The day was dull and overcast as the boy and girl, hand in hand, tramped across the fields to where the fringe of cedars formed the advance guard of the woodlands. George held Betty’s hand very tightly in his. _She_ understood him, at least. They said but little until they were well in the heart of the woods, and had sat down upon a fallen tree. Then George, laying his head on Betty’s shoulder, burst into tears, and cried as if his heart would break. No creature was ever better formed to feel for others than sweet little Betty. She had never seen George weep like that; but she was not frightened or disconcerted. She only laid her wet cheek against George’s, and sighed so deeply that he knew that his burden lay as heavy on her heart as on his. Presently, when he had become more composed, Betty spoke: “Brother, hard as it is, I am glad of one thing--nobody can say anything to you about it, after you have said that you gave way to our mother, for no boy, or man either, can let anybody in the world find fault with his mother.” “Yes, Betty,” answered George, sadly. “I will not be such a poltroon as to let any one say my mother has not acted right.” “She meant to act right,” said Betty; “but--” Betty paused, and the brother and sister looked into each other’s eyes and said no more, but each understood the other. “Of course,” sighed Betty, “it would have been the hardest thing in the world to have you go away; but if you wanted to go, dear George, and it was best for you, _I_ would have given you up, and I would have tried not to cry when you went away, and I would have thought of you every single day while you were away, and if you had not come home for ten years, or twenty years, I would have loved you just as much as ever.”