When I told Betty that she must go away to a school for a year,
she shrugged, frowned and consented. Betty had learned that she
must consent to what I decreed, even when my decrees were opposed
to her likings, as she had once fondly believed they never would
be. But Betty had acquired confidence in me to the beautiful
extent of acquiescing in everything I commanded.
"I'll go, of course, since you wish it, Stephen," she said. "But
why do you want me to go? You must have a reason--you always
have a reason for anything you do. What is it?"
"That is for you to find out, Betty," I said. "By the time you
come back you will have discovered it, I think. If not, it will
not have proved itself a good reason and shall be forgotten."
When Betty went away I bade her good-by without burdening her
with any useless words of advice.
"Write to me every week, and remember that you are Betty
Churchill," I said.
Betty was standing on the steps above, among her dogs. She came
down a step and put her arms about my neck.
"I'll remember that you are my friend and that I must live up to
you," she said. "Good-by, Stephen."
She kissed me two or three times--good, hearty smacks! did I not
say she was still a child?--and stood waving her hand to me as I
rode away. I looked back at the end of the avenue and saw her
standing there, short-skirted and hatless, fronting the lowering
sun with those fearless eyes of hers.
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