Up to that point, life had been the simplest of propositions to Betty Beverley, but from that day it became painfully complex. She had thought but little and spoken less of the great word “duty,” but she had in her the soul of the soldier, and her duty loomed large before her, as it did before Fortescue. On this point their understanding was perfect. Betty, if Fortescue had been ordered into action, would have buckled his sword about his waist and bade him, with a smile, to go. In the same way, when Betty spoke of her duty to stay, Fortescue said no word to make her a traitor. But they were both young and full of hope and love, and had transcendent confidence in the future. Everything would come right, was the easy conviction of both.

Betty waited a few days to see if Fortescue’s visit had roused any latent suspicions in the Colonel’s mind, but, seeing it had not, one day when it was soft and mild as on the day of days when Fortescue had told her of his love, she walked in the little garden with the Colonel and told him all.

“But I don’t mean to desert you, granddaddy,” she said firmly. “I don’t know how it is coming out, and neither does Jack”—for by that time Fortescue had become “Jack” to Betty—“but I hate a deserter, you know.”

“It wouldn’t be desertion, my dear,” said the Colonel. “And it would be a base thing of me to spoil your life, my little Betty. But, as you say, a way will be found. Don’t let us trouble about it until Christmas, then, as you say, Fortescue will try to get a leave that will give him a week at Rosehill, and we shall see. I think perhaps I could get on pretty well at Holly Lodge with Cesar and Tulip and Kettle.”

“Do you mean,” cried Betty indignantly, “that you could get on pretty well without me? Oh, what a wicked old grandfather you are!”

“But if you will come to see me sometimes,” said the Colonel, anxious to find a way.

In due time the letter to the Colonel came from Fortescue, and the Colonel answered it in his dignified, old-fashioned manner. He did not wish and would not permit himself to be a bar to his granddaughter’s happiness. After a time, when their affection had been tested, he would give his consent to the marriage.

The officers came, and the camp was pitched, and much work was done. Likewise, much eating, drinking, dancing, riding, boating, and picnicing with the county people. It was the old story of Christmas week transferred to spring. Betty appeared to be as keen over the lieutenants as Sally Carteret or any girl in the county, nor did she feel any qualms of conscience when two second lieutenants each told her at different times that he could not live without her. Betty was a little unfeeling toward her admirers, and her tears were but crocodile tears when she told the lieutenants that she could not leave her grandfather—except for that—— Here Betty broke down prettily, and the lieutenants were in despair. But they speedily recovered from their disappointment and found other outlets for their affections. Betty, the trifler, was serious enough, however, where Fortescue was concerned.

The spring melted into summer and on a day black for Sally Carteret and the other gay young things in the county the camp was broken and the officers departed. Luckily, though, it was at the season when the University students returned to the county, bringing many of their fellow students with them, so that there was balm in Gilead. As for Betty, she was quite willing to play with the University students, as she had with the second lieutenants. But deep down in her heart they mattered little. There was only one man for her, and that was Lieutenant John Hope Fortescue.

The earth seemed brightening for all at Holly Lodge. The Colonel had learned more and more to accommodate himself to the little house and the simple surroundings, and, free from debts and duns, had great peace. Betty, whose heart had flown about like the larks and thrushes from bough to bough, had at last made its nest, and she too had great peace. Kettle turned out to be not only a solid addition to their comfort, but almost to their happiness. His sturdy little bow-legs waddled about, bringing wood and water, and doing errands. He was always cheery and helpful, but with the faults which are necessary to the typical boy. He would occasionally neglect his work for the sake of his adored fiddle, and when sent down to the river shore to catch crabs for dinner would become so absorbed in the sport that he would forget that it was merely a means to an end. One day, however, he incurred the wrath of the whole establishment at Holly Lodge. Among Betty’s treasures was a great tall glass bottle of attar of roses, of which a single drop perfumed a room. Kettle, passing Betty’s open door, the room being empty, saw on the dressing table the beautiful bottle in which was stored the perfume he loved. The devil tempted him, and Kettle yielded. He slipped into the room, and, opening the bottle, rubbed its contents, a gill or two of attar of rose, into his wool.

Downstairs, a pungent odor, so strong that it was almost asphyxiating, penetrated, and as Kettle’s steps were heard approaching the perfume became overpowering. The Colonel began to sneeze, and even Aunt Tulip and Uncle Cesar in the kitchen had to run out into the open air. Betty, with her handkerchief to her face, rushed into the little hall, where Kettle stood, his eyes bulging out of his head, as he too gasped and sneezed.

“You’ve upset my attar of rose upon your head!” screamed Betty. “Go out of doors this minute, and I’ll hand you over to Uncle Cesar for a real switching this time.”

By that time Aunt Tulip had dashed in from the kitchen, and, seizing Kettle by his woolly head, dragged him out of doors to the pump, calling meanwhile for Uncle Cesar, working in the garden.

“Cesar! You Cesar! Come heah right away, an’ bring my big scissors. This heah wuffless little black nigger done tooken all Miss Betty’s attar of rose an’ done rub it into he haid, an’ arter you git the scissors, cut a switch an’ give him a good tunin’ up.”

This terrifying prospect entirely upset Kettle’s moral balance, and he began to protest, spluttering and stuttering, as Aunt Tulip pumped water vigorously on his offending head.

“I ’clar ter goodness, I ain’ never see Miss Betty’s attar of rose. I ain’ never tetch it.”

At that, Aunt Tulip stopped pumping on Kettle long enough to shake him violently.

“Does you know where liars go?” cried Aunt Tulip indignantly. “Doan’ you know nothin’ ’bout the lake burnin’ wid fire an’ brimstone, an’ the devil stan’in’ by wid a red hot pitchfork, stickin’ it into dem sinners?”

This awful future, the arrival of Uncle Cesar with the scissors, Aunt Tulip’s merciless use of them on his wool, and Uncle Cesar’s going off after a switch, brought shrieks from Kettle, as if he were being murdered by inches. Betty, in the house, hearing Kettle’s screams, ran out, and Uncle Cesar reappeared at the same moment with a switch of horrifying proportions. Poor Kettle, with every scrap of wool cut off his head, leaving his skull as bare as an egg, was so drenched and frightened and woebegone, that Betty’s heart melted.

“I think, Uncle Cesar,” she said, “we won’t give Kettle that switching to-day, though he certainly deserves it.”

Uncle Cesar was loth to lay aside the instrument of torture.

“Miss Betty, you better lemme give him a dozen licks anyhow,” urged Uncle Cesar. “You k’yarn’ raise boys ’thout licks.”

But Betty demurred. Kettle, meanwhile, poured out a flood of penitential tears, and, moved by Betty’s clemency, confessed that he had emptied the bottle of attar of rose on his head and rubbed it in. He even offered to produce the empty bottle to corroborate his word, which nobody doubted. However, the oft-deferred switching was once more postponed, and the improved prospects raised Kettle’s spirits immediately. Half an hour afterward, when he was in dry clothes, he was as cheerful as ever, although minus his wool, and, having been sent to the wood-pile by the still indignant Aunt Tulip, was seen standing on his head in the intervals of picking up chips.