And all the time she
was trying to thrust away the thought growing in her mind.
They spent the evening together in the library, and Betty read aloud.
She read a long time--until quite late. She wished to tire herself as
well as to force herself to stop listening.
When they said good-night to each other Rosy clung to her as desperately
as she had clung on the night after her arrival. She kissed her again
and again, and then hung her head and excused herself.
"Forgive me for being--nervous. I'm ashamed of myself," she said.
"Perhaps in time I shall get over being a coward."
But she said nothing of the fact that she was not a coward for herself,
but through a slowly formulating and struggled--against fear, which
chilled her very heart, and which she could best cover by a pretence of
being a poltroon.
She could not sleep when she went to bed. The night seemed crowded with
strange, terrified thoughts. They were all of Betty, though sometimes
she thought of her father's coming, of her mother in New York, and of
Betty's steady working throughout the day. Sometimes she cried, twisting
her hands together, and sometimes she dropped into a feverish sleep, and
dreamed that she was watching Betty's face, yet was afraid to look at
it.
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