She spoke in her usual voice and immediately drew the children after her, but Betsy’s heart was singing joyfully as she trotted along clasping Cousin Ann’s strong hand. Now she knew that Cousin Ann realized.... She trotted fast, smiling to herself in the darkness. “What made you think of doing that?” asked Cousin Ann presently, as they approached the house. “Why, I tried to think what YOU would have done if you’d been there,” said Betsy. “Oh!” said Cousin Ann. “Well ...” She didn’t say another word, but Betsy, glancing up into her face as they stepped into the lighted room, saw an expression that made her give a little skip and hop of joy. She had PLEASED Cousin Ann. That night, as she lay in her bed, her arm over Molly cuddled up warm beside her, she remembered, oh, ever so faintly, as something of no importance, that she had failed in an examination that afternoon. CHAPTER VIII BETSY STARTS A SEWING SOCIETY Betsy and Molly had taken Deborah to school with them. Deborah was the old wooden doll with brown, painted curls. She had lain in a trunk almost ever since Aunt Abigail’s childhood, because Cousin Ann had never cared for dolls when she was a little girl. At first Betsy had not dared to ask to see her, much less to play with her, but when Ellen, as she had promised, came over to Putney Farm that first Saturday she had said right out, as soon as she landed in the house, “Oh, Mrs. Putney, can’t we play with Deborah?” And Aunt Abigail had answered: “Why YES, of course! I KNEW there was something I’ve kept forgetting!” She went up with them herself to the cold attic and opened the little hair-trunk under the eaves. There lay a doll, flat on her back, looking up at them brightly out of her blue eyes. “Well, Debby dear,” said Aunt Abigail, taking her up gently. “It’s a good long time since you and I played under the lilac bushes, isn’t it? I expect you’ve been pretty lonesome up here all these years. Never you mind, you’ll have some good times again, now.” She pulled down the doll’s full, ruffled skirt, straightened the lace at the neck of her dress, and held her for a moment, looking down at her silently. You could tell by the way she spoke, by the way she touched Deborah, by the way she looked at her, that she had loved the doll very dearly, and maybe still did, a little. When she put Deborah into Betsy’s arms, the child felt that she was receiving something very precious, almost something alive. She and Ellen looked with delight at the yards and yards of picot-edged ribbon, sewed on by hand to the ruffles of the skirt, and lifted up the silk folds to admire the carefully made, full petticoats and frilly drawers, the pretty, soft old kid shoes and white stockings. Aunt Abigail looked at them with an absent smile on her lips, as though she were living over old scenes. [Illustration: Betsy and Ellen and the old doll.]