Miss Lavender whirled around and looked at her a minute, without saying
a word.

"I see you mean it, child. Don't think me hard or cruel, for I know your
feelin's as well as if they was mine; but all the same, I've got to look
ahead, and back'ards, and on this side and that, and so lookin', and so
judgin', accordin' to my light, which a'n't all tied up in a napkin,
what I've got to say is, and ag'in don't think me hard, it won't do!"

"Betsy," Martha Deane persisted, "a misfortune like this brings my duty
with it. Besides, he may be in great danger; he may have got his
death,"--

"Don't begin talkin' that way," Miss Lavender interrupted, "or you'll
put me out o' patience. I'll say that for your father, he's always
mortal concerned for a bad case, Gilbert Potter or not; and I can mostly
tell the heft of a sickness by the way he talks about it,--so that's
settled; and as to dooties, it's very well and right, I don't deny it,
but never mind, all the same, I said before, the whole thing's a snarl,
and I say it ag'in, and unless you've got the end o' the ravellin's in
your hand, the harder you pull, the wuss you'll make it!"

There was good sense in these words, and Martha Deane felt it. Her
resolution began to waver, in spite of the tender instinct which told
her that Gilbert Potter now needed precisely the help and encouragement
which she alone could give.

"Oh, Betsy," she murmured, her tears falling without restraint, "it's
hard for me to seem so strange to him, at such a time!"