“Aunt Elizabeth has written mother that she hopes I will keep an eye on Libbie.  Now Betty, can you honestly see me trailing around after that girl who sees a romance in every bush and book and who cries when any one plays violin music?  I’ll look after her all right—­she’ll have to study French instead of poetry if I’m to be her friend and guide.”

* * * * *

“But, of course, Bobby does really love Libbie very dearly,” said Betty, folding up the letter and returning it to her pocket.  “She wouldn’t hurt her for worlds.”

“You’ll be a much better guardian for Libbie, if she needs one,” pronounced Bob, with unexpected shrewdness.  “Bobby hasn’t much tact, and she makes Libbie mad.  You could probably control her better with less words.”

“Well, I never!” gasped Betty, gazing at Bob with new respect.  “I never knew you thought anything about it.”

“Didn’t until just now,” responded Bob cheerfully.  “So Uncle Dick is willing to let you go, is he?  When do you start?”

“You don’t mind, do you, Bob?” countered Betty, puzzled.  “You sound so kind of—­of funny.”

“Don’t mean to,” said Bob laconically.

Having finished his tart, he lay back and rested his head in his hands in true masculine contentment.

“I like that blue thing you’ve got on,” he commented lazily.  “Did I ever see it before?”

“Certainly not,” Betty informed him.  “I’ve been waiting for you to notice it.  It’s wash silk, Bob, and your Aunt Faith said I could have it if I could do anything with it.  She’s had it in a trunk for years and years.”

“I don’t see how you and Aunt Faith could wear the same clothes, she’s so much taller than you are,” said Bob, obviously trying to put two and two together in his mind.  “But it looks fine on you, Betty.”

Betty smiled at him compassionately.

“Oh, Bob, you’re so funny!” she sighed.  “I made this blouse all myself—­that is,” she corrected, “Mrs. Watterby helped me cut it out and she sewed the sleeves in after I had basted them in wrong twice, but I did everything else.  There wasn’t a scrap of goods left over, either.  I put it on to-day because I wanted you to see me in it.”

She was worth seeing, Bob acknowledged to himself.  The over-blouse of blue and white checked silk, slashed at the throat for the crisp black tie, and the gray corduroy riding skirt and smart tan shoes were at once suitable and becoming.

“I’ll have to have some new clothes for school,” declared Betty, who had a healthy interest in this topic.  “We can’t wear very fussy things, though—­Bobby sent me the catalogue.  Sailor suits for every day, and a cloth frock for best.  And not more than one party dress.”

“I asked her when she started,” Bob confided to the blank eye of the white horse now turned dully toward him.  “But if she answered me, I didn’t hear.”

“I’m going a week from this Friday,” announced Betty hastily.  “That will give me a week in Washington, and Mrs. Littell has asked me to stay with them.  I must write to Mrs. Bender to-night and tell her the news; she has been so anxious for me to go to school again.”