On the way back to the house they had an adventure, a sort of adventure, and it brought home to Betsy once for all how much she loved dear, sweet Aunt Frances, and just what kind of love it was.

As they crossed the barnyard the calf approached them playfully, leaping stiff-legged into the air, and making a pretense of butting at them with its hornless young head.

Betsy and Shep often played with the calf in this way by the half-hour, and she thought nothing of it now; hardly noticed it, in fact.

But Aunt Frances gave a loud, piercing shriek, as though she were being cut into pieces.  “Help!  Help!” she screamed.  “Betsy!  Oh, Betsy!”

She had turned as white as a sheet and could not take a single step forward.  “It’s nothing!  It’s nothing!” said Betsy, rather impatiently.  “He’s just playing.  We often play with him, Shep and I.”

The calf came a little nearer, with lowered head.  “Get away!” said Betsy indifferently, kicking at him.

At this hint of masterfulness on Betsy’s part, Aunt Frances cried out, “Oh, yes, Betsy, do make him go away!  Do make him go away!”

It came over Betsy that Aunt Frances was really frightened, yes, really; and all at once her impatience disappeared, never to come back again.  She felt toward Aunt Frances just as she did toward little Molly, and she acted accordingly.  She stepped in front of Aunt Frances, picked up a stick, and hit the calf a blow on the neck with it.  He moved away, startled and injured, looking at his playfellow with reproachful eyes.  But Betsy was relentless.  Aunt Frances must not be frightened!

“Here, Shep!  Here, Shep!” she called loudly, and when the big dog came bounding to her she pointed to the calf and said sternly, “Take him into the barn!  Drive him into the barn, sir!”

Shep asked nothing better than this command, and charged forward, barking furiously and leaping into the air as though he intended to eat the calf up alive.  The two swept across the barnyard and into the lower regions of the barn.  In a moment Shep reappeared, his tongue hanging out, his tail wagging, his eyes glistening, very proud of himself, and mounted guard at the door.

Aunt Frances hurried along desperately through the gate of the barnyard.  As it fell to behind her she sank down on a rock, breathless, still pale and agitated.  Betsy threw her arms around her in a transport of affection.  She felt that she understood Aunt Frances as nobody else could, the dear, sweet, gentle, timid aunt!  She took the thin, nervous white fingers in her strong brown hands.  “Oh, Aunt Frances, dear, darling Aunt Frances!” she cried, “how I wish I could always take care of you.”

The last of the red and gold leaves were slowly drifting to the ground as Betsy and Uncle Henry drove back from the station after seeing Aunt Frances off.  They were not silent this time, as when they had gone to meet her.  They were talking cheerfully together, laying their plans for the winter which was so near.  “I must begin to bank the house tomorrow,” mused Uncle Henry.  “And those apples have got to go to the cider-mill, right off.  Don’t you want to ride over on top of them, Betsy, and see ’em made into cider?”