"By all that was consistent, and reasonable, and merciful, and safe," he
told himself, "if it was absolutely necessary for the dear old lady to
disappear so mysteriously, why had she not taken Betty Jo along?"

In the meantime, while Brian was confiding his grievances to his
four-footed companions in the barn, Betty Jo was expressing herself in
the kitchen.

"Betty Jo," she began, as she raked the ashes from the stove preparatory
to building the fire, "it appears to me that you have some serious
considering to do, and"--with a glance toward the barn, as she went out
to empty the ash-pan--"you must do it quickly before that man comes for
his breakfast. You were very right, last night, in your decision, to
go away. It is exactly what you should have done. I am more than ever
convinced of that, this morning. But you can't go now. Even if Auntie
Sue had not taken your pocket-book and every penny in it, you couldn't
run away with Auntie Sue herself gone. If she hadn't wanted you to stay
right here for some very serious reason, Betty Jo, she would have
taken you with her last night. Auntie Sue very pointedly and definitely
expects you to be here when she returns. And she will be away several
days,--several days, Betty Jo." She repeated the words in a whisper.
"And during those several days, you are to keep house for the man you
love;--the man who loves you;--the man whom you must keep from telling
you his love,--no matter how your heart pleads for him to tell you, you
must not permit him to speak. He will be coming in to breakfast in a few
minutes, and you will sit down at the table with him,--across the table
from him,--facing him,--Betty Jo,--just like--"

She looked in the little mirror that hung beside the kitchen window,
and, with dismay, saw her face flushed with color that was not caused by