Two months passed. Betty, pale, thin and worn by sickness and grief, walked arm in arm with Aunt Martha through the paths of the old fashioned garden. One glimpse of the grief-stricken girl would leave in the mind a picture one could never forget. The large eyes looked out from depths much deeper than ever before; the ashy pale cheeks made a startling contrast to the dark eyes. The figure was thin almost to emaciation and the dress was simple and black. The mischievous expression was replaced by one of listlessness and altogether she looked like one who had but a slender hold on life. “Marty, do you think Dr. Baker would allow me to ride Walter’s horse alone?” “Not today, you’re not strong enough yet. I wrote Jack that you might be well enough to see him today. He is coming out on the early train.” “I wish I didn’t have to.” “He’ll cheer you up, dear. I’ve been looking forward to his visit. Walter liked him and you’ve put him off so often. Now let him come.” “I would rather not see anyone,” responded Betty, her eyes filling with tears. “But Jack has been so thoughtful--see him for me. You’ll feel better for having had a little company.” Slow steps sounded on the gravel path. Betty darted a look like a frightened deer in the direction from which they came. Jack approached them between an aisle of poplars. “Have I caught you unawares?” he asked jocularly, and his face showed plainly that he was startled at the changed appearance of Betty. “Oh no,” answered Aunt Marty, “my girl has just been asking for a horse-back ride.” “I wanted to ride Walter’s horse alone for a little while,” interposed Betty sadly. “You are not strong enough to do that,” said Jack. “But I’d like to.” “Take care of her, Jack,” said Aunt Marty, indicating a seat at the far end of the garden. “I must go and see about my chickens--two of my prettiest white ones were killed by a train.” “Mrs. Ames,” Jack called laughingly after her, “can’t you train chickens better than to have them stand on a railroad track?” The figure of the patient little old lady disappeared among box woods. “She didn’t hear me,” he added, turning to Betty. “She has three hundred and they all seem to know her,” answered Betty, relieved for the moment to find something impersonal to talk of. “Would you like to see the new puppies? There are five of them, Frank says. I haven’t seen them myself yet.” “No, dear girl. I want to see you and you only. Why have you avoided me, when you know my heart has been aching so badly? and that I love you so deeply?” Betty rose slowly from the bench, waved Jack away with her hand, and was about to leave him. “Please, will you never, never breathe a word--of--love to me again,” she asked. “What?”--asked Jack, “were you only playing with me, Betty?” “No--before God, I knew not what I did or said.” “Come, come, my little girl, you are weak and faint--I’m a brute to worry you. Let’s be friends now and sweethearts later.”