That night she lay awake after she and Molly had gone to bed and Molly was asleep.  They had decided not to tell Molly until the last minute, so she had dropped off peacefully, as usual.  But poor Betsy’s eyes were wide open.  She saw a gleam of light under the door.  It widened; the door opened.  Aunt Abigail stood there, in her night cap, mountainous in her long white gown, a candle shining up into her serious old face.

“You awake, Betsy?” she whispered, seeing the child’s dark eyes gleaming at her over the covers.  “I just—­I just thought I’d look in to see if you were all right.”  She came to the edge of the bed and set the candle down on the little stand.  Betsy reached her arms up longingly and the old woman stooped over her.  Neither of them said a single word during the long embrace which followed.  Then Aunt Abigail straightened up hastily, took her candle very quickly and softly, and heavily padded out of the room.

Betsy turned over and flung one arm over Molly—­no Molly, either, after tomorrow!

She gulped hard and stared up at the ceiling, dimly white in the starlight.  A gleam of light shone under the door.  It widened, and Uncle Henry stood there, a candle in his hand, peering into the room.  “You awake, Betsy?” he said cautiously.

“Yes.  I’m awake, Uncle Henry.”

The old man shuffled into the room.  “I just got to thinking,” he said, hesitating, “that maybe you’d like to take my watch with you.  It’s kind of handy to have a watch on the train.  And I’d like real well for you to have it.”

He laid it down on the stand, his own cherished gold watch, that had been given him when he was twenty-one.

Betsy reached out and took his hard, gnarled old fist in a tight grip.  “Oh, Uncle Henry!” she began, and could not go on.

“We’ll miss you, Betsy,” he said in an uncertain voice.  “It’s been ... it’s been real nice to have you here ...”

And then he too snatched up his candle very quickly and almost ran out of the room.

Betsy turned over on her back.  “No crying, now!” she told herself fiercely.  “No crying, now!” She clenched her hands together tightly and set her teeth.

Something moved in the room.  Somebody leaned over her.  It was Cousin Ann, who didn’t make a sound, not one, but who took Betsy in her strong arms and held her close and closer, till Betsy could feel the quick pulse of the other’s heart beating all through her own body.  Then she was gone—­as silently as she came.

But somehow that great embrace had taken away all the burning tightness from Betsy’s eyes and heart.  She was very, very tired, and soon after this she fell sound asleep, snuggled up close to Molly.

In the morning, nobody spoke of last night at all.  Breakfast was prepared and eaten, and the team hitched up directly afterward.  Betsy and Uncle Henry were to drive to the station together to meet Aunt Frances’s train.  Betsy put on her new wine-colored cashmere that Cousin Ann had made her, with the soft white collar of delicate old embroidery that Aunt Abigail had given her out of one of the trunks in the attic.