“Yes, indeed; and when I first came to Fairport,—it was the winter before Mrs. Bruce sent me to school,—he told me about you, and told me you’d be there in summer with this rich family, and that if I could get you for a friend it would be the best thing that could happen to me; and it has been, Betsy—except that it did give me that bitter-sweet school experience.” The girl put her arm around her companion. “Captain Salter told me so much about you—how you had always managed to do for people in the village. He thinks you’re a wonder.” Miss Foster started to speak, but changed her mind and merely grunted. Then, after a silent moment of endurance of the girl’s embrace, she changed the subject. “Unwind that tendril now,” she said, taking Rosalie’s hand and moving her away; “and be careful, child, who you do reach out to,” she added seriously. “Oh, are you going, Betsy?” exclaimed the girl, troubled. The woman hesitated. “You let me go tell Mrs. Bruce that I’ll walk back to the hotel so they won’t wait for me. They’re probably all in the wagon by this time, and wonderin’ where I am.” “I’ll wait right here,” returned Rosalie eagerly, and she stood watching Betsy’s retreating figure with wistful eyes. Miss Foster presented herself in the group who were waiting for the carriage, and announced to Mrs. Bruce her wish to walk back to the hotel. [Illustration: BETSY! DEAR BETSY!] “With that girl, I suppose,” said Mrs. Bruce, scorn in her voice. “Do as you please, Betsy. I’ve certainly had one more lesson in letting well enough alone. It is likely she never would have grumbled with her bread and butter and left Mrs. Pogram, if I had not been the means of putting ideas into her head. I’m obliged to admit that you were right, Betsy, when you talked to me about it a few weeks ago.” Mrs. Bruce gave a little sigh. “I wish I weren’t so warm-hearted and impulsive. Doesn’t it lead one into lots of trouble, Mrs. Nixon?” Mrs. Nixon was of the opinion that it did; and she still held by the arm a victim of misguided emotion. Irving and Robert had disappeared. “Come home in the carriage with us, Henry,” she said to her captive. “There will be a vacant place now.” There was still wandering upon the river bank among the overhanging trees a golden-haired dryad, whose presence caused the lady to desire the sanctuary of the park wagon for her brother until she could have a few words with him in private. This she accomplished after they reached the hotel and she had lured him out upon the large upper veranda, where reclining chairs invited wanderers to repose in the sunshine. Mr. Derwent recognized the symptoms of extreme solicitude for his comfort, and smiles which were like flashes of heat-lightning. His sister was a woman of much poise, and heat-lightning seldom portends showers; still they had been known to arrive before the atmosphere could clear, and he had the ordinary masculine dread of them.