Kettle paused for a minute in order to think of some other inducement. "Aunt Tulip, she got a rice pudden' wid gre't big raisins in it, mos' as big as my fist," urged Kettle. "No, thank you," replied Betty absently. But Kettle's sympathy could not be bottled up. "Miss Betty," pleaded Kettle, "lemme go out an' crack you up some wun'nuts," by which Kettle meant walnuts. Betty's patience was giving out. "No, Kettle," she said sharply. "I don't want anything except tea and toast, as I told you." "But, Miss Betty," persisted Kettle, edging toward the door, "I got a big bag o' chestnuts, an' they mighty good roasted on the kitchen shovel." Betty's nerves and her temper could stand no more. "Go away, Kettle," she cried impatiently. "Go downstairs this minute and serve the Colonel's soup." The tone could not be mistaken, and Kettle went out of the door as if shot out of a gun. Once outside, however, his little faithful heart was still torn for Betty, and he was prepared to take great risks. He turned the door-knob noiselessly, and, putting his round, black head in the door, whispered: "Miss Betty, Miss Betty, when I bring up yo' tea, lemme bring you up a hard b'iled aig!" Betty's answer was to throw a pillow at Kettle, who dodged it and went clattering downstairs. What a strange, unnatural day it was for Betty! Here in the brilliant afternoon, when she was wont to be her brightest and best, she lay huddled up in her bed, racked with physical and mental pain. Her sunny room was dark, and her active little feet felt like lead. The prospect of a party, the music, the dancing, the bright interchange of looks and words that was the wine of life to Betty's pleasure-loving temperament, seemed to her now a dreadful ordeal, to be gone through with courage, and by a stupendous effort to let no one suspect the agony of her mind. Never before had she felt humiliated in the presence of any man, but she felt a sharp humiliation at the thought that in the first encounter of her will with Fortescue's, she had been defeated; whether by her own unreason or his, was equally painful. But there was no back-down in Betty, and she never dreamed of staying away from the party or giving up the fight because of an aching heart. The old Colonel downstairs in the sitting-room felt his heart wrung for his little Betty. Too soon had come to her those shocks and disappointments against which youth rebels. The young demand happiness of life, and are in despair when they first find they cannot secure it. Kettle, after having taken up Betty's tea, came downstairs again, and, instead of going into the kitchen, where he belonged, came into the sitting-room and, perching his small, black, and miserable self upon a little cricket, fixed his eyes upon the Colonel's grave, gray face, outlined against the window-pane. The boy sat so still and silent that the Colonel at last roused himself and asked kindly: "What's the matter, Kettle?"