Clever Betsy. Clara Louise Burnham

Hickey gazed and chewed.

      “I’ve got to have me a new apron,” she said. “A chump in the kitchen burned one o’ mine yesterday.”

      The stage moved on and paused again in the picturesque pass that leads to the Golden Gate, while all eyes rested upon the Rustic Waterfall, whose tuneful grace as it leaps from ledge to ledge down the worn rock, speaks of life and beauty, striking after the desolation just passed.

      Mrs. Bruce’s suspended accusation was repeated as the horses started. “You do make fun of me, Irving,” she said.

      “No, no,” he returned. “I simply recognize your spirit of knight-errantry. Glorious business.” He smiled at her. “Journeying through the world and righting wrongs as you go.”

      “I really do think the vines would be a lovely idea,” she declared; and the driver coughed again.

      “See how the Hoodoos prepared you to revel in the present beauty,” said Irving. “You just said that it wasn’t necessary for all men to be handsome. Same thing applies to landscape, doesn’t it?”

      “But his mother is very handsome, I think,” replied Mrs. Bruce, her butterfly habit of mind coming in play; “and that gentleman, – did he say – ”

      “Are you talking about Nixie? Oh yes, his mother is grande dame, and I’ve heard him speak of that uncle, Mr. Derwent, often. He’s the capitalist of the family, I believe.”

      “The girl,” went on Mrs. Bruce, “seems to be a companion. I noticed Mrs. Nixon didn’t say much to her.”

      “Is that the sign of companionship?” asked Irving. “Something for you to fix, Madama.”

      “She’s a very ladylike looking girl,” replied Mrs. Bruce.

      “Nixie’ll talk to her all right if she has ears,” remarked Irving.

      “It’s very nice of him to be nice to Betsy. Who else is in the stage?”

      “I didn’t notice.”

      “Driver,” Mrs. Bruce turned to her bureau of information, “did you notice who is on the back seat of our stage?”

      The driver’s imperturbable lips parted. “They put two heavers in there, I believe,” he replied.

      “Who?” Mrs. Bruce spoke in italics.

      “Waitresses from the hotel. They move them sometimes with the crowd.”

      Mrs. Bruce kept silence a moment to recover the shock. The presence of the Nixon party still proved the respectability of the last stage, however.

      “Heavers! Is that your slang out here?” she asked at last, and laughed. “I hope that isn’t descriptive of the way we’re going to be waited on, Irving.”

      Rosalie’s heart fluttered again on leaving the stage at Norris Basin; but the celerity with which the experienced Miss Hickey hurried her into the hotel to take up their duties aided her wish to be unnoticed. The verandas were alive with passengers already arrived, all ravenous from hours of coaching in the mountain air.

      At last Rosalie, in her white gown and apron, stood in her appointed place, and the crowds began to be let into the dining-room. Miss Hickey was at some distance from Rosalie, and the latter felt a little hysterical rise in her throat in the knowledge that the snapping black eyes were watching for Irving Bruce.

      The Nixon party came before the Bruces, and Mr. Derwent spied Rosalie and hastened his dignified footsteps toward her table.

      “The waitress we had this morning,” he said to Mrs. Nixon. “She has a head on her.”

      “Sounds alluringly like champagne,” murmured Robert to Miss Maynard, who ignored him.

      Rosalie involuntarily gave a shy smile as Mr. Derwent nodded at her. She could have embraced them all in her gladness to be delivered from waiting on the Bruces, who now entered, and, tragical to relate, fell short of Miss Hickey’s table. That damsel, however, being at once overwhelmed with orders from a famished group, had no time to mourn.

      Mr. Derwent looked with pleasant eyes at Rosalie when he ordered his soup.

      “You enjoyed the drive over,” he said. “There are roses in your cheeks.”

      “Yes, sir. Consommé?” returned Rosalie faintly, the blush roses referred to deepening to Jacqueminot.

      Robert glanced up and saw that this was the fair girl who had kept so still behind her veil on the back seat all the morning.

      “I take my hat off to Uncle Henry,” he said, again addressing Helen Maynard, who was seated beside him. “He can see more out of the back of his head than I can with my eyes.”

      “I will order for us both,” said Mrs. Nixon to Rosalie; and forthwith proceeded to do so with an air which forbade levity.

      When Rosalie had received her orders and hastened from the room, Robert again unburdened himself.

      “If I could get at that rubber ear of Uncle Henry’s,” he remarked to his demure neighbor, “I’d tell him he was a sad dog. A very good thing he brought me on this trip.”

      “Mr. Derwent’s eyes mean more to him than ours do to us, naturally,” returned Helen.

      “And I tell you,” returned Robert devoutly, “anybody endears himself to Uncle Henry who brings his coffee just right. That blonde must have done it this morning. How,” turning to his mother, “does my mother enjoy democratic traveling? This girl is a peach; but you should see the other one that was with her this morning in the coach. Did you?”

      “No,” returned Mrs. Nixon coldly. “Why should I trouble myself about my neighbors? I came to see the scenery.”

      “Well,” Robert shrugged his shoulders, “all is, you’ve missed a chance to see how a perfect lady should behave. Her gum-manners were a dream; but cheer up! You’ll have a chance this afternoon, doubtless.”

      Here Rosalie brought the soup. Helen Maynard looked up at her and received a strange impression of familiarity.

      “She looks like some one,” she said softly. “Who is it?”

      “I know,” responded Robert promptly, “Hebe.”

      “I haven’t met her yet,” returned Helen. “I’m climbing the mount of Olympus by slow and easy stages.”

      “Now if you mean anything about me,” returned Robert briskly, “speak right out. I can’t cope with clever people. If you’re clever, I’m done for.”

      “Oh!” ejaculated Helen softly. “Lambeth!”

      “Is that any relative to shibboleth?” effervesced Robert. “Because I can say it. See? Better let me in.”

      “Lambeth is a school,” returned Helen, and stole another look at their busy waitress; “a school where I went.”

      Irving Bruce had Betsy on his right hand, but Mrs. Bruce absorbed him; and Betsy sat looking before her, idly waiting for her meal. Her roving glance fell suddenly on Rosalie’s blond head as the girl was leaving the dining-room.

      “Why, that looked like Rosalie Vincent,” she reflected; then thought no more of it until later, when, her eyes again roving to that table, she obtained a full view of the fair-haired waitress as the girl refilled Mr. Derwent’s glass.

      Betsy held her knife and fork poised, while her steady-going heart contracted for a second. “That is Rosalie Vincent!” She held the exclamation well inside, and looked at her neighbors. They had evidently noticed nothing, and Betsy devoutly hoped they would not. It was doubtful whether Mrs. Bruce would recognize her protégée in any case; but instinctively Betsy desired to prevent her from doing so; and contrary to her habit of speaking only when she was spoken to, she began commenting on the scenery; and Mrs. Bruce was impressed with the unusual docility and willingness to be enlightened displayed by her stiff-necked maid, whose thoughts were busy during the whole of her mistress’s patronizing