“That’s awfully nice of you, dearie,” said the old woman, looking gratefully from one bright face to the other.  “I suppose you don’t know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” she added, her voice breaking a little, “’cause I never could tell you if I lived for a hundred years.  But you just sort o’ revived my faith in human nature.  Since my boy went away—­” The old voice broke down entirely then, and Betty continued patting her hand soothingly,

“But there,” she added, in a different tone, wiping her eyes determinedly and smiling at them, “this ain’t no kind of a mornin’ for tears, an’ I know my son Willie would be the first one to tell me so.

“Thank you jest as much for askin’ me, dearies, and maybe some other time I’ll get my courage up to it.  But now you jest run along an’ enjoy yourselves.

“An’ when you come back,” she added, taking both of the soft young hands in her wrinkled one and patting them gently, “you can come up an’ tell me all about it.”

“Oh, will you let us?” asked Betty eagerly, jumping up and dropping a kiss, light as thistle-down, upon the old face.  “And we’ll bring you flowers, whole bunches of them.  Will you promise to be happy while we’re gone?”

“Yes, dearie, just happy thinking of your coming back and the flowers,” she agreed, and the smile remained on her lips even after the door closed behind them until the sound of their light footsteps and laughter faded away.

Then the brave lips drooped and the gray head went down upon her arms.

“They’re such lovely little ladies,” she murmured to herself.  “An’ I will try to be happy.  Only—­I want my boy, my little son—­my baby—­”

Meanwhile—­

“Isn’t she the dearest thing?” asked Amy of Betty as they went into the kitchen to gather up the picnic baskets.  “I’m getting so fond of her it will just hurt like everything to have her go away.”

“Go away?  Oh, Amy!” cried the Little Captain in surprise, facing her as though that possibility had not yet entered her mind.

“Why, yes,” repeated Amy, astonished at Betty’s amazement.  “She’s almost well now, and, of course, she’s too independent to want to stay here when she’s all right again.  Why, Betty, what’s the matter?”

For Betty had sunk down in one of the kitchen chairs and was regarding her tragically.

“But, Amy, she mustn’t go away,” she argued weakly, knowing that she really had no argument at all.  “Why, I really can’t imagine it!  I—­I never thought—­”

“Well, of course, none of us wants her to,” Amy admitted, adding reasonably:  “But I really don’t see how we’re going to stop her if she makes up her mind to go.  Do you?”

Betty picked up one of the hampers and they walked slowly back through the hall to the front porch.

“Why no, not exactly,” she said thoughtfully, then added, with a sudden gleam in her eyes:  “Unless—­unless—­”