The spring came on apace, but instead of bringing with it the joy of the springtime, an atmosphere of settled sadness seemed to descend upon the little house at Holly Lodge, where a year ago there had been so much of cheerfulness and merriment. The fire had been a severe shock to Colonel Beverley, and all at once the blight of age appeared to be laid upon him. It was the same with Uncle Cesar, and master and man, who had spent nearly seventy years together, both seemed passing into the shadowy path. Oftener than ever the Colonel would send for Uncle Cesar, and the two old men would talk of their youth and of the four years of starvation and marching and fighting during the war, and of times and events long passed, of which they were the sole survivors. When they fiddled together in the evenings, the music was faint; their bow arms were feeble, and their fingering weak. Kettle, now almost recovered, was able to do much of Uncle Cesar’s work, and would have done it all if he had been allowed. Even old Whitey suddenly seemed to falter under the burden of years, and had to be coddled as old creatures should be. As for Betty, it was as if in the midst of a spring morning the soft and purple twilight had descended, as if all sounds of life were stilled and the silence of the night were at hand. She could hardly believe herself the same Betty that had laughed and danced and sung so merrily during her short life. There were the same friends, the same generous hospitality, the same kindly attentions from her friends and neighbors as ever, but Betty now kept close to Holly Lodge. She had a very good excuse. The Colonel was growing more and more infirm, and upon Betty’s delicate shoulders rested all the responsibilities of three old persons and a child. She was quite equal to it, but she could no longer go to dances and picnics like Sally Carteret and the other girls of her acquaintance. It was true that a way for her to go about was always provided by the kindness of those who remembered that Whitey was an old horse, and that Uncle Cesar was an old man. But Betty was rather glad of the excuse to stay at home. She had plenty to keep her occupied all day, but in the soft spring dusk and the moonlit midsummer nights, and the cool autumn twilights she would go into the garden and walk up and down the path bordered by the box hedge. In all that time Fortescue was never absent from her mind. She could see with the eyes of the mind his lithe, military figure, his clear-cut, aquiline face, his close-cropped dark head, and could hear his rich, pleasant voice. A painful and humiliating conviction was forcing itself upon Betty’s mind; she began to fear that she had played the fool. At heart, she was the soul of good, practical sense, and an act of folly mortified and offended her as it does those who are sound and sane. After a while, she faced the hateful truth that she had acted arrogantly and foolishly, and apparently without heart. Fortescue had been clearly within his rights, and what he had said about providing for the Colonel and everything being made easy by the power of money, instead of being dictatorial and purse-proud, as Betty had thought, was really generous and provident. To lose perfect happiness by accident or the fault of another is hard enough, but to lose it by one’s own folly and rashness was heartbreaking to Betty’s frank soul and candid temperament.

“But, after all,” thought Betty, when in these twilight walks she glanced toward the pile of Rosehill, mute and dark and uninhabited, “it could not have been. How is it possible that I, Betty Beverley, should ever be the mistress of Rosehill, and have Grandfather with me and be the wife of Fortescue? No, it was too much. The gods are none too generous. I had a treasure in the hollow of my hand, and I threw it away. I shall not have it again.”

A subtle change came over Betty’s look and manner. She was as brave as ever, but instead of the daring light in her eyes and the joyous laughter on her lips, were the calm courage of endurance and a softness and gentleness greater than she had ever before known. She spent every hour that was possible with the Colonel, sitting by him with her sewing—for Betty did all her own sewing—or reading to him, or playing and singing to him; and to all in the little house, from the Colonel down to little black Kettle, Betty was their light and strength, their guardian angel. Life had turned its stern face upon her, and Betty was learning bravely and quietly the meaning of that sternness.