“I was hoping you would soon come upstairs,” she said to Elizabeth. “Have I ever shown you this silver ball that came from India or told you the story that was brought with it?” Betsey was never to forget that afternoon. Treasure after treasure Miss Miranda set before her, tale after tale she told, that carried her listener so far away that trouble, disappointment, misgivings for the morrow, were all forgotten. There were stories of strange foreign lands where sea-faring Reynolds forbears had journeyed to find endless adventures and to bring home tales of the glittering, colorful Orient. There were stories of her own youth, of her brother’s absurd mishaps and deeds of daring, stories of the Northern woods where they had camped, of tramping journeys they had taken together over forested hills and marshy valleys, where moose called at twilight and deer broke cover as they came near. The hours sped, the hot sunlight moved across the room, touched the ceiling and was gone, the hard day was over. The nurse came to the door and said that Mr. Reynolds was better, was conscious and was asking for his daughter. “Miss Miranda,” said Betsey as, a little later they were returning the ornaments to the shelves where they belonged, “it was I that should have comforted you to-day, but you helped me instead. I don’t understand how you know such wonderful things to tell, or have such strange treasures in your toy-cupboard.” Miss Miranda smiled. She seemed quite brave and cheerful again. “People all have toy-cupboards,” she answered, “hidden away somewhere in their hearts and minds. There are many who keep them always locked, store their memories and treasures there and never look at them again. But I think you should keep the doors open and, when things go wrong, when you are tired and discouraged and your spirit fails, you should take out your treasures and go over the beautiful things of the past and let yourself see again the quaint and curious and happy things that your life has held. If you do that I think you can never be quite unhappy, never can quite lose courage, never really grow old.” CHAPTER XI RUNNING WATER