“That’s me—­that’s Betsy Barlow,” she whispered, taking off her glasses to wipe away the moisture gathering so fast upon them.  Then resuming them, she continued:  “I’m a hewer of wood—­a drawer of water.  God made me so, and shall the clay find fault with the potter for making it into a homely jug?  No, indeed; and I was a very foolish old jug to think of sticking myself in with the chinaware.  But I’ve larnt a lesson,” and the philosophic woman read on, feeling comforted to know that though a vessel of the rudest make, a paltry jug, as she called herself, the promises were still for her as much as for the finer wares—­ay, that there was more hope of her entering at last where “the walls are all of precious stones and the streets are paved with gold,” than of those whose good things are given so abundantly during their lifetime.

Assured, comforted, and encouraged, she fell asleep at last, and when Mrs. Banker returned she found her slumbering quietly in her chair, the Bible open on her lap, and her finger upon the passage referring to the hewers of wood and drawers of water, as if that was the last thing read.

Next morning, at a comparatively early hour, Helen stood ringing the bell of Mrs. Banker’s house.  She had passed a restless, but not altogether wretched night, for the remembrance of Mark’s kindness in keeping Aunt Betsy away, and his manner while telling her of it would not permit of her being more than anxious as she lay awake, wondering why Mark was so kind, and if it could be possible that he was free from Juno and cared for her.  It made her happy to think so, and her face, as she stood upon the steps, looked bright and fresh, instead of pale and tired, as it usually did after a night of wakefulness.  She had said to Katy that she was going out and could not tell just when she might return, and as Katy never questioned her acts, while Wilford was too intent upon his own miserable thoughts as to “where Aunt Betsy could be or what had befallen her,” to heed any one else, no inquiries were made and no obstacles put in the way of her going to Mrs. Banker’s, where Mark met her himself, holding her cold hand until he led her to the fire and placed her in a chair.  He knew she would rather meet her aunt alone, and so when he heard her step in the hall he left the room, holding the door for Aunt Betsy, who wept like a little child at the sight of Helen, accusing herself of being a fool, an old fool, who ought to be shut up in the insane asylum, but persisting in saying she was going home that very day without seeing Katy at all.  “If she was here I’d like it, but I shan’t go there, for I know Wilford don’t want me.  Say, Helen, don’t you think he’ll be ashamed of me and wish I was in Guinea?” she asked as her desire to see Katy grew stronger, but was met and combated with her dread of Wilford!

Helen could not tell her he would be ashamed, but Aunt Betsy knew she meant it, and with a fresh gush of tears she gave the project up entirely, telling Helen all she did not already know of her trip to New York, her visit to the opera, her staying with the Tubbses and her meeting with Mark, the best young chap she ever saw, not even excepting Morris.  “If he was my own son, he couldn’t be kinder,” she added, “and I mistrust he hopes to be my nephew.  You can’t do better, and if he offers, take him.”