"
"Why, Betty?" I asked. "You may speak plainly to me. I think I know your
motive."
"I want to offer a little prayer to the Virgin here at her broken
shrine--a prayer for your cousin and for you--and for me."
I knelt with her, and after Betty had finished her simple invocation, we
rose, and I, who at another time would have laughed at the prayer, felt
the thrill of her whispered words lingering in my heart. I seemed to know
that we should rescue Frances, and I also knew that my love for Bettina
would bring me nothing but joy, softened and sanctified by sadness, and
to her nothing of evil save the pain of a gentle longing.
Betty felt as I did, for when she rose she said, "Now we shall find
Mistress Jennings, and, Baron Ned, I shall fear you no more."
"Have you feared me?" I asked, touched to the quick by her artless
candor.
"Yes," she answered, sighing. "Though I have feared myself more. You
are so far above me in every way that it is no wonder I am bewildered
when you say--say--that you--. You know what I mean."
"Yes, Betty," I answered quickly, feeling that she had more to say.
"I was bewildered in my parlor at the Old Swan to-day," she said, hanging
her head. "Your opinion of me must have fallen."
"No, no, I understood, Betty, I understood, and I dare not tell you how
much my opinion has risen because I would say more than would be good for
you or for me," I answered reassuringly.
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