The conviction that her mother was fearful of meeting old friends in Dalton was growing on Betty these days, and it disturbed her greatly. Moreover she did not like a certain growing restless nervousness in her mother's manner, nor did she like the increasing pallor of her mother's cheek. Something, somewhere, was wrong. Of this Betty became more and more strongly convinced. Nor did a little episode that took place late in January tend to weaken this belief. They had gone to market--Betty and her mother. Lured by an attractive "ad," they had gone farther from home than usual, and were in a store not often visited by them. They had given their order and turned to go, when suddenly Betty found herself whisked about by her mother's frantic clutch on her arm and led swiftly quite across the store to the opposite door. There, still impelled by that unyielding clutch on her arm, she found herself dodging in and out of the throngs of customers on their way to the street outside. Even there their pace did not slacken until they were well around the corner of the block. "Why, mother," panted Betty then, laughing, "I should think you were running away from all the plagues of Egypt." "I--I was--worse than the plagues of Egypt," laughed her mother, a bit hysterically. "Why, mother!" cried Betty, growing suddenly alert and anxious. "There, there, dear, it was nothing. Never mind!" declared her mother. But even as she spoke she looked back fearfully over her shoulder. "But, mother, what _was_ it?" "Nothing. Just a--a woman I didn't want to see. I used to know her years ago, and she was--such a talker! We wouldn't have got home to-night." "But we shan't now--if we keep on this way," laughed Betty uneasily, her troubled eyes on her mother's face. "We're going in quite the opposite direction from home." "Dear, dear, so we are! We must have turned the wrong way when we came out from the store." "Yes, we--did," agreed Betty. Her words were light--but the troubled look had not left her eyes. CHAPTER XXVI THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING It was on a gray morning early in February that Betty found her employer pacing the library from end to end like the proverbial caged lion. When he turned and spoke, she was startled at the look on his face--a worn, haggard look that told of sleeplessness--and of something else that she could not name. He ignored her conventional morning greeting. "Miss Darling, I want to speak to you." "Yes, Mr. Denby." "Will you come here to live--as my daughter?" "Will I--what?" The amazement in Betty's face was obviously genuine.