“Well, think now, then!” returned Betsy. “I know _I_’d rather die any time than have a live dog cut up on the chance of helping to keep me here a little longer; and I shouldn’t dare show myself before the Maker of the dog if I wouldn’t! And everybody who doesn’t vote against it, and work against it, deserves to see their own pets on the rack. I guess that would bring it home to them!” Betsy winked hard as she finished, and Irving patted her slight shoulder. “I haven’t the slightest doubt that you’re right, Betsy, but for a few days we can’t do anything about it; and now let’s talk about something that makes you happy—heavers, for instance.” Betsy’s usually inexpressive eyes had a wistfulness in them as she turned toward the strong face she loved. “I can’t bear to have her any place where she could be called a heaver!” she responded. “That young woman must be a wonder,” said Irving. “She’s the first, I’ll wager, to make a conquest of Betsy Foster in one day!” “Your mother’s about the only one that ever did that, Mr. Irving.” Betsy’s eyes fell upon a chipmunk by the roadside, sitting up and clasping its hands under its chin in the customary admiration of the stage. “See that little critter?” she continued. “This girl is just as innocent as that chipmunk, and knows just as much o’ the ways o’ the world. It goes by her; and though her heart sort o’ comes up in her throat, she cheers up under the least kindness and is willin’ to admire everything and everybody.” “Well, well! What an impression in one day on my unimpressionable Betsy!” Irving smiled, genuinely surprised by this unprecedented interest. “That girl was the child o’ luxury,” went on his companion,—“lost everything, parents included, and came to be practically a servant in the home of a poor relation. Got so persecuted by the attentions of a skinflint man who wanted her to be _his_ drudge that she ran away, and somehow drifted into waitin’ on hungry folks in the Yellowstone!” Irving smiled. “She told a story well, anyway. She has missed her vocation. Some one ought to tell her the pen is mightier than the knife and fork.” “It’s easy to tell the truth,” returned Betsy, nettled by his tone. Irving laughed. “For Clever Betsy, I do believe; but for most people always difficult, and usually unsafe.” “H’m,” returned his companion, “this girl was tellin’ the truth and I know it.” Here the stage stopped and the passengers dismounted to see a pool of great beauty which was out of sight from the road; and when they returned, Betsy’s abstraction had vanished; and although she evidently enjoyed Irving’s companionship on the long drive, not another word on the subject of her companion of yesterday could be elicited from her. Once Mr. Derwent turned around and met her eyes. “Where is your young friend?” he asked. Betsy shook her head. “She didn’t come,” she answered.