There was something delightfully companionable about Betsey; she had a way of suddenly looking up over her big spectacles with a reassuring and expectant smile, as if you were going to speak to her, and you generally did. She must have found out where hundreds of people came from, and whom they had left at home, and what they thought of the great show, as she sat on a bench to rest, or leaned over the railings where free luncheons were afforded by the makers of hot waffles and molasses candy and fried potatoes; and there was not a night when she did not return to her lodgings with a pocket crammed with samples of spool cotton and nobody knows what. She had already collected small presents for almost everybody she knew at home, and she was such a pleasant, beaming old country body, so unmistakably appreciative and interested, that nobody ever thought of wishing that she would move on. Nearly all the busy people of the Exhibition called her either Aunty or Grandma at once, and made little pleasures for her as best they could. She was a delightful contrast to the indifferent, stupid crowd that drifted along, with eyes fixed at the same level, and seeing, even on that level, nothing for fifty feet at a time. “What be you making here, dear?” Betsey Lane would ask joyfully, and the most perfunctory guardian hastened to explain. She squandered money as she had never had the pleasure of doing before, and this hastened the day when she must return to Byfleet. She was always inquiring if there were any spectacle-sellers at hand, and received occasional directions; but it was a difficult place for her to find her way about in, and the very last day of her stay arrived before she found an exhibitor of the desired sort, an oculist and instrument-maker. “I called to get some specs for a friend that’s upsighted,” she gravely informed the salesman, to his extreme amusement. “She’s dreadful troubled, and jerks her head up like a hen a-drinkin’. She’s got a blur a-growin’ an’ spreading an’ sometimes she can see out to one side on ’t, and more times she can’t.” “Cataracts,” said a middle-aged gentleman at her side; and Betsey Lane turned to regard him with approval and curiosity. “’Tis Miss Peggy Bond I was mentioning, of Byfleet Poor-farm,” she explained. “I count on gettin’ some glasses to relieve her trouble, if there ’s any to be found.” “Glasses won’t do her any good,” said the stranger. “Suppose you come and sit down on this bench, and tell me all about it. First, where is Byfleet?” and Betsey gave the directions at length. “I thought so,” said the surgeon. “How old is this friend of yours?” Betsey cleared her throat decisively, and smoothed her gown over her knees as if it were an apron; then she turned to take a good look at her new acquaintance as they sat on the rustic bench together. “Who be you, sir, I should like to know?” she asked, in a friendly tone. “My name’s Dunster.”