“It’s Jake,” he announced, recognising the boy who had helped his father with the ploughing.

“Hope he won’t see us,” said Betty, in a low tone, drawing in her head.  “We are not hurting anything, but maybe some of the church people wouldn’t like it, if they knew I climbed in at the window.  They might think it wasn’t respectful.”

“He’s looking this way,” said Davy, who had stood up for a better view, but squatted down again at Betty’s command.

[Illustration:  “OH, RUN AND GET IT, QUICK, DAVY,’ SHE CRIED.”]

It was too late.  Jake had recognised Davy’s shock of yellow hair, and called out, good-naturedly, “Hello, stickin’-plaster, where’s Betty?  Somewhere around here, I’ll bet anything, or you wouldn’t be here.  I’ve got a letter for her.”

At that, Betty leaned so far out of the window that she nearly lost her balance and toppled over.  “Oh, run and get it, quick, Davy,” she cried.  The little bare feet twinkled through the grass to meet the old sorrel horse, and two brown hands were held up to receive the letter; but Jake preferred to deliver the important document himself.

“Here you are,” he said, riding alongside the window and dropping the letter into her eager hands.

“Oh, thank you, Jake,” she cried.  “It makes me feel as if Christmas was coming.  I never got a letter in my life except in my Christmas boxes.  My godmother always writes to me then, and this must be from her, too.  Yes, it is, I know her handwriting.”

If Jake expected her to tear it open instantly and share the news with him before she had examined every inch of the big square envelope, he was disappointed.  The old blaze-faced sorrel had carried him out of sight before she had finished cutting it open with a pin.  Then she spread the letter out on her knees, drawing a long breath of pleasure as the faintest odour of violets floated up from the paper with its dainty monogram at the top.

Davy waited in silence, watching a flush spread over Betty’s face as she read.  Her breath came short and her heart beat fast.

“Oh, Davy,” she exclaimed, in a low, wondering tone.  “What do you think?  It is an invitation to a house party at Locust; Lloyd Sherman’s house party.  Oh, it’s like a lovely, lovely fairy tale with me for the princess.  I’ve never travelled on the cars since I was old enough to remember it, and they’ve sent passes for me to go.  I’ve never had any girls to play with in all my life, and now there will be two besides Lloyd; and, oh, Davy, best of all, I’ll see my beautiful, beautiful godmother!  I shall be there a whole month, and she knew my mamma and was her dearest friend.  I haven’t seen her since I was a baby, when she came to my christening, and of course I can’t remember anything about that.”

Davy listened to her raptures without saying anything for awhile.  Then he set aside his usual custom and asked a question.  “Why are you crying?” he demanded.  “There’s a tear running down the side of your nose.”