“I sprained my ankle,” said Pamela, blushing more and more, and wondering if Mr. John had perhaps kept that little incident to himself.
“And I trying to make you run!” cried the penitent Sara. “Never mind, take my arm. I am not in the least in a hurry. Lean upon me--there’s a good child. They should not let you come so far alone.”
Thus it was that the two arrived at Betty’s cottage, to the old woman’s intense amazement. Pamela herself was flattered by the kind help afforded her, but it is doubtful whether she enjoyed it; and in the exciting novelty of the position, she was glad to sit down in a corner and collect herself while her brilliant young patroness fulfilled her benevolent mission. Betty’s lodge was a creation of Miss Brownlow’s from beginning to end. It was Sara’s design, and Sara had furnished it, up to the pictures on the wall, which were carefully chosen in accordance with what might be supposed to be an old woman’s taste, and the little book-shelf, which was filled on the same principles. The fact was, however, that Betty had somewhat mortified Sara by pinning up a glorious colored picture out of the “Illustrated News,” and by taking in a tale of love and mystery in penny numbers, showing illegitimate tastes both in literature and art. But she was suffering, and eventually at such a moment her offenses ought to be forgiven.
“You should not stand at the door like that, and go opening the gate in such weather,” said Sara. “I came to say you must have one of your son’s children to help you,--that one you had last year.”
“She’s gone to service, Miss,” said Betty, with a bob.
“Then one of your daughter’s,--the daughter you have at Masterton--she has dozens and dozens of children. Why can not one of them come out and take care of you?”
“Please, Miss,” said Betty, “a poor man’s childer is his fortune--leastways in a place where there’s mills and things. They’re all a-doing of something, them little things. I’m awful comfortable, Miss, thanks to you and your good papa”--at this and all other intervals of her speech, Betty made a courtesy--“but I ain’t got money like to pay ’em wages, and saving when one’s a bit delicate, or that--”
“Betty, sit down, please, and don’t make so many courtesies. I don’t understand that. If I had a nice old grandmother like you”--said Sara; and then she paused and blushed, and bethought herself--perhaps it might be as well not to enter upon that question.