Once this had been the single thought that made staying at home seem unendurable, but now even that difficulty, it seemed, could be faced. In one short afternoon at Miss Miranda’s, Elizabeth had felt herself surrounded by such a warmth of friendliness that already she felt certain that here would be a refuge where she would be welcome and at home, no matter how empty and deserted her own house might seem. To come home from school, weary with the labors of the day and find no one there save Anna, busy in the kitchen and not wishing to be disturbed, to have no one glad to see her or desirous of knowing just how things had gone—it had seemed a depressing prospect. But now that she knew Miss Miranda it was somehow different. Elizabeth could not have explained just why she felt, after only an hour or two of acquaintance, after only a little talk, that here was a friend to stand by her through everything. Feel it she did, however, and with the knowledge, made firm her decision. But to hold to that decision was not so easy. “I was absolutely certain that you would come with me,” Aunt Susan exclaimed, trying a new point of attack. “I had even decided what clothes you were to have. Your traveling suit was to be green faille silk with white furs.” Betsey had before had experience with dresses planned by Aunt Susan. They were apt to be of the sort in which you could not run upstairs, or that split their sleeves if you raised your arms suddenly, but they were always very beautiful. She sighed a little at the thought of the white furs. “And I dare say you could go to school here and there in places where we stopped long enough,” her aunt went on; “that ought to be all you need for keeping up your work.” She had not been to college herself and had not grasped the fact that dropping in upon one school and then another could fail to produce all the education necessary. Elizabeth tried to explain, but found it useless. She wished that, having stated her determination, she could go home at once, for the longer she stayed the more irresistible and enticing did the journey seem. She had rashly consented to stay to dinner, however, and so must prepare for a long struggle. The dinner was half enjoyable on account of the beautiful things on the table, silver and flowers and frail china that Betsey loved, and half terrifying on account of the things that Aunt Susan might be going to say next. She said a great deal, she exclaimed, she expostulated, she persuaded, until her niece was at the point of exhaustion. “But it will be so dreary, all by yourself!” she kept insisting, in answer to which Betsey continued to maintain stoutly— “Miss Miranda is going to be a good friend to me. I will not be entirely alone.” “Do you mean Miranda Reynolds who lives on the hill, up Somerset Lane?” Aunt Susan inquired. “I am very fond of her myself, but somehow I never seem to see much of her nowadays. How do you happen to know her?”