Betty, worn out with crying, had fallen asleep. The sound of wheels
roused her. It seemed to rain cabs at the Rectory to-day.

There were voices in the hall, steps on the stairs. Her door was
unlocked and there entered no tray of prisoner's fare, no reproachful
step-father, no Protestant sister, but a brisk and well-loved aunt,
who shut the door, and spoke.

"All in the dark?" she said. "Where are you, child?"

"Here," said Betty.

"Let me strike a light. Oh, yes, there you are!"

"Oh, aunt,--has he sent for you?" said Betty fearfully. "Oh, don't
scold me, auntie! I am so tired. I don't think I can bear any more."

"I'm not going to scold you, you silly little kitten," said the aunt
cheerfully. "Come, buck up! It's nothing so very awful, after all.
You'll be laughing at it all before a fortnight's over."

"Then he hasn't told you?"

"Oh, yes, he has; he's told me everything there was to tell, and a lot
more, too. Don't worry, child. You just go straight to bed and I'll
tuck you up, and we'll talk it all over in the morning."

"Aunty," said Betty, obediently beginning to unfasten her dress, "did
he say anything about _Him_?"