Betty Gordon in Washington | Page 6

came out half an hour after his
arrival, carrying a little tray of lemonade and cakes, he was deep in a
recital of the first charge he had held upon his graduation from the
theological seminary forty years before.
"There, that's over!" sighed Mrs. Peabody, quite like the experienced
hostess, when the minister's shabby black buggy was well on its way
out of the lane. "You're dreadful good, Betty, to help me through with it.
He won't come again for another six months--it takes him that long to
cover his parish, the farms are so far apart. Let me help you carry back
the chairs."
Betty longed to suggest that they leave them out and use the porch as
an outdoor sitting room, but she knew that such an idea would be sure
to meet with active opposition from the master of Bramble Farm. Long
before he came in to supper that night the chairs had been restored to
their proper places and Mrs. Peabody had resumed the gray wrapper
she habitually wore. Only the vase of flowers on the table was left to
show that the afternoon had been slightly out of the ordinary. That and
the tray of glasses Betty had unfortunately left on the draining board of
the sink, intending to wash them with the supper dishes.
"Whose glasses, and what's been in 'em?" demanded Mr. Peabody
suspiciously. "There's sugar in the bottom of one of 'em. You haven't
been making lemonade?" He turned to his wife accusingly.
Bob had not come home yet, and there was only Ethan, the hired man,
Betty, and the Peabodys at the supper table.

"I made lemonade," said Betty quietly. "Those are my own glasses I
bought in Glenside, and the sugar and lemons were mine, too. So were
the cakes."
This silenced Peabody, for he knew that Betty's uncle sent her money
from time to time, and though he fairly writhed to think that she Could
spend it so foolishly, he could not interfere.
As soon as it was dark the Peabody household retired, to save lighting
lamps, and this evening was no exception. Betty learned from a stray
question Mrs. Peabody put to Ethan, the hired man, that Bob was not
expected home until ten or eleven o'clock. There was no thought of
sitting up for him, though Betty knew that in all likelihood he would
have had no supper, having no money and knowing no one in
Trowbridge.
She was not sleepy, and having brushed and braided her hair for the
night, she threw her sweater over her dressing gown and sat down at
the window of her room, a tin of sardines and a box of crackers in her
lap, determined to see to it that Bob had something to eat.
There was a full moon, and the road lay like a white ribbon between the
silver fields. Betty could follow the lane road out to where it met the
main highway, and now and then the sound of an automobile horn
came to her and she saw a car speed by on the main road. Sitting there
in the sweet stillness of the summer night, she thought of her mother, of
the old friends in Pineville, and, of course, of her uncle. She wondered
where he was that night, if he thought of her, and what would be his
answer to her letter.
"Is that a horse?" said Betty to herself, breaking off her reverie abruptly.
"Hark! that sounds like a trotting horse."
She was sure that she could make out the outlines of a horse and rider
on the main road, but it was several minutes before she was positive
that it had turned into the lane. Yes, it must be Bob. No one else would
be out riding at that hour of the night. Betty glanced at her
wrist-watch--half-past ten.

The rhythmic beat of the horse's hoofs sounded more plainly, and soon
Betty heard the sound of singing. Bob was moved to song in that lovely
moonlight, as his sorry mount was urged to unaccustomed spirit and a
feeling of freedom.
"When in thy dreaming, moons like these shall shine again, And,
daylight beaming, prove thy dreams are vain."
Bob's fresh, untrained voice sounded sweet and clear on the night air,
and to Betty's surprise, tears came unbidden into her eyes. She was not
given to analysis.
"Moonlight always makes me want to cry," she murmured, dashing the
drops from her eyes. "I hope Bob will look up and know that I'm at the
window. I don't dare call to him."
But Bob, who had stopped singing while still some distance from the
house, clattered straight to the barn.
Betty hurried over to her lamp, lit it, and set it on the window sill.
"He'll see