Mrs. Bruce regarded him affectionately and went with docility to the greenwood of her bedroom; and Betsy, with no change of feature, followed Irving to his. When they were inside, he closed the door, seated Betsy in a green rocker, and put himself astride a straight chair. “You know very well,” said Betsy uneasily, “that if I stay, Mrs. Bruce will come over here.” “No, she won’t,” returned Irving, “for the best of reasons. She doesn’t know which room I have.” “Well, give me your things quick,” said Betsy. “Why are you afraid, all of a sudden?” “I—” returned Betsy, hesitating, “I want to—to keep her happy.” “Not for your own sake, I’ll bet.” “No. Give me your things, Mr. Irving.” The young man did not move. “Betsy,” he said, “she _mustn’t_ stay here.” “Who mustn’t stay where?” she returned, reddening. “You heard Mr. Derwent say that they were related,” went on Irving. “You think,” said Betsy, with rare sarcasm, “she’d be in better business writin’ stories for some fireside paper, or imposin’ on folks’ credulity?” Her companion magnanimously overlooked the thrust. “She’s too fine from head to foot, physically, and too fine in her innocence, to be touched with anything rough. She mustn’t stay here.” “Who’s to prevent it?” asked Betsy quietly, though Irving was unconsciously rewarding her for much of her devotion. “I am.” “That ain’t possible.” “Not only possible, but easy. Give her the money to go back to Portland to stay till we come. She’ll never know it’s mine.” “No, sir! I won’t do that. She’d never take so much money as that from me, and I’d have to tell her the truth. She’s just possessed to pay Mrs. Bruce back, as it is. She’d rather work in their Park years than not do it.” Irving made an impatient sound, and Betsy shook her head. “Mrs. Bruce is awful down on her. You’ll find it out if you touch the subject any lower’n her hair. I know the symptoms.” “Well, what are you going to do, then?” asked Irving, frowning impatiently. Miss Foster looked back at him, full. “That ain’t anything to any young man,” she said impressively. “You’re going to do something, then?” he asked eagerly. “I don’t want to go into that dining-room to-night. Do you like to see her there?” He rose, spurned his chair, and walked up and down the log cage. Betsy followed him with her eyes. “Look here, Mr. Irving. I love Rosalie Vincent.” The pedestrian stopped, and hugged the speaker’s thin shoulders. “And I don’t want to have any feelin’ stirred up against her. If you take any interest in her, just follow my advice, and while we’re all together here, don’t notice her, and, above all, don’t speak about her.” “She’s like the bit of porcelain going down the river among the earthen jugs,” burst forth Irving. “Then don’t throw a rock at her,” returned Betsy. “She’s got a ticklish enough time without that. Where are your things, Mr. Irving?” Betsy started from her chair in a sudden panic.