Now Rosalie was not little. She was an upstanding daughter of the gods, meriting their trite description; and the adjective warmed Betsy’s heart and filled her with courage. That, and the tone of the words, gave her a welcome cue. She looked wistfully into the kind eyes. “It’s one o’ the hardest things I’ve ever done to leave Rosalie at that inn,” she said. “I didn’t like it either,” responded her companion quietly. “Let us come over in this corner and talk a bit.” Betsy followed, an inward pæan of thanksgiving going up from her good heart. Irving was still talking fishing-tackle at a desk at the opposite end of the office. Miss Maynard was frisking in a two-step with Robert, and the two mothers chaperoned her gravely and with increasing sleepiness, while the orchestra rang its rhythmic changes. Betsy, standing a little at one side of the crowd, told again the story of Rosalie’s life to an attentive listener, who in his turn recounted to her certain circumstances of the Vincent losses. “And it has come to this, has it,” said Mr. Derwent, “that this young girl hasn’t a friend in the world except you and me?” “That’s it,” responded Betsy promptly. “That is—” she added hurriedly—“we’re the only safe ones she’s got.” “How is that?” Mr. Derwent smiled leniently. “A lover? I shouldn’t wonder at that.” “Oh, no, not a lover. I should hope not! Good gracious!” Betsy’s manner and precipitate speech made Mr. Derwent smile again. “You don’t mean that big boy in our stage with two mothers, neither of whom owns him?” Betsy’s wandering eyes looked so desperately embarrassed that the speaker could not forbear pressing her a little. “Two mothers; one of whom he loves and one who loves him.” Miss Foster started. “Oh, Mr. Derwent,” she gasped, and now her eyes met his in fright. “Very well,” he said, “whoever it is, I think we shall be equal to the case without his help. They tell me you’re called Clever Betsy. Now let’s see whether you’re well-named. Let’s talk ways and means a little.” And Betsy did talk: talk as she had seldom done since Irving’s mother went to sleep one night in her arms. She told Mr. Derwent of a friend of her childhood, one Hiram Salter, and laid bare her designs on that mariner’s hearth and home. Mr. Derwent listened, nodding sometimes, and when she had finished, he spoke. “And this talent of Rosalie’s,—this elocutionary business? Would there be any field for her perhaps in Fairport, as a teacher?” Betsy looked dubious. “Maybe. It’s a pretty well-to-do village all times o’ year; but that could come afterward. If I just once knew she was safe in a home! She could likely get into a school somewhere later.” “Well-to-do, you say,” repeated Mr. Derwent thoughtfully. “Do the people there entertain? Parlor entertainments pay pretty well.” “No,” replied Betsy slowly, fixing her interlocutor with a gaze which little by little seemed to see beyond him. “Folks there wouldn’t think they could—spend money—that way—”