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. So I looked my last on the child Betty.
That was a lonely year. My occupation was gone
