Clever Betsy. Clara Louise Burnham

reminded of the Hoodoo Rocks.”

      Betsy listened and replied so respectfully that her mistress remarked on it afterwards to Irving.

      “All this travel is developing that hard, narrow New England mind of Betsy’s,” she said. “You can see it.”

      And all the time Miss Foster was in a mild Inferno of her own, for her heart had always warmed to Rosalie Vincent, who used frequently to make her the confidante of her small hopes and fears, and whose sunny, confiding nature had endeared her to Betsy, and often aroused an unspoken sympathy in the sordid conditions of the girl’s lot.

      Betsy’s one ambition now was to get the Bruces out of the dining-room before Mrs. Bruce should discover where the wings she had bestowed upon Rosalie had fluttered.

      “I won’t try to see the child,” thought Betsy, “but I’ll write to her as soon as we get away from here.” She cast a furtive glance at the young girl. “She looks like one o’ these pretty actresses,” she thought, “rigged up to wait on table on the stage.”

      She saw that Rosalie was keeping an eye on the Bruce party, and nervous in the fear of recognition; and this added to her relief when, Mrs. Bruce’s appetite satisfied, she begged Irving to hurry so that they might view the smoking wonders without.

      CHAPTER VIII

      THE BLONDE HEAVER

      “Isn’t it remarkable,” asked Mrs. Bruce, “that we were just talking about the Inferno?”

      She, with her companions, had come down from the hotel into the hissing, steaming tract of the Norris Basin.

      Deep rumblings were in their ears. Narrow plank-walks formed a footing amid innumerable tiny boiling springs, while the threatening roar of larger ebullitions and the heavy sulphurous odors of the air gave every indication that here indeed was the gateway to that region where our forefathers believed that the unlucky majority paid the uttermost farthing.

      The Nixons had also elected to walk through the Basin, meeting the stage at a point farther on.

      “Say, Brute,” called Robert, “doesn’t this beat New Year’s for the time, the place, and the good resolution?”

      Mrs. Nixon’s nostrils dilated in disgust at the evil smells.

      Irving caught a glimpse of her expression.

      “Mrs. Nixon is making up her mind never again to do anything wrong,” he remarked.

      “I always said my Hades would be noise,” she replied, “but I begin to think it will be odors.”

      “I always said mine would be dirt,” declared Mrs. Bruce, “but I believe I’d prefer that to being boiled. Irving, don’t you let go of me. This is the wickedest place I ever saw. Those little sizzling springs are just hissing to catch my feet.”

      The party stopped to watch the heavy plop-plop of a mud geyser.

      “Now,” said Robert, “while we’re all thinking on our sins and properly humble, is the time to get acquainted. Mrs. Bruce, this is my mother, and my uncle Mr. Derwent, and Miss Maynard; and Mr. Bruce you all know by reputation.”

      Betsy had moved to a remote corner of the geyser.

      “I never know just how to address that member of your party,” said Robert to Irving.

      The latter smiled. “She would tell you she was just Betsy. She’s such a good soul that down East, in the village where she comes from, they call her Clever Betsy; and she’s all that New England means by the adjective, and all that Old England means, too.”

      Meanwhile Rosalie Vincent was making her hasty preparations for another move, and to her came Miss Hickey in a state of high satisfaction.

      “I’m staying, Baby,” she cried, her eyes snapping. “I guess there must be a lot of lay-overs. Anyway they need me, and there’s a Swattie ball to-night. Hurray!” Miss Hickey executed a triumphant two-step and knocked over a chair.

      Rosalie seized her arm. “Can’t I stay too, then?” she asked anxiously.

      “No, you can’t, Blue-eyes. You’re to go.”

      “Oh, you go and let me stay!” begged Rosalie nervously.

      “And lose the ball?” exclaimed Miss Hickey. “Well, believe me, you’ve got nerve!”

      Rosalie looked as if she were going to cry, and Miss Hickey’s good-nature prompted a bit of comfort.

      “Besides, if you’re afraid of the lock-up, this is your chance to side-step those folks. More’n as like as not they’re among the lay-overs.”

      At this consideration Rosalie did brighten, and when the last stage came around, Miss Hickey was present to speed the parting heaver whose apprehensive glance about her saw no familiar figure.

      “Oh, they are staying, Miss Hickey!” she exclaimed, in hushed tones.

      The sophisticated Miss Hickey did not respond, but nodded affably to the driver.

      Rosalie breathed a relieved farewell as she left the big-boned bulwark of her friend and obeyed the agent’s signal to enter the back seat of the stage. The vehicle was empty but for a stout man with a field glass strapped across his shoulders who mounted to the seat beside the driver, and they started.

      The whole stage to herself! Rosalie could scarcely believe it.

      She listened to the strange noises in the air and watched the steam which, mounting high, would make one believe that the locality was alive with factories. The girl’s curious gaze roamed about, and she thought wistfully of such travelers as might visit at their leisure the wonders about her.

      There were great beauties, however, even for a heaver to enjoy. The morning’s ride had been a keen pleasure in the intervals of her embarrassment. The profusion of wild flowers; monk’s-hood, hare-bells, and Indian paintbrush, had fed her eyes with their splashes of color; and the behavior of the wild animals made one think of the millennium. Sure of protection from being hunted and slain, the chipmunks sat up on their hind legs close to the road, to watch the stage go by, clasping their tiny hands beneath their chins, like children in ecstasy at seeing a pretty show. Frequently one would be seen sitting up and nibbling the seeds from a long stem of grass, which he held in such a manner that he appeared to be playing a flute. A big marmot here and there lay along a bough or rock, turning his head lazily to view the tourists through his Eden. Boiling springs and boiling rivers, hill, vale, mountain, and waterfall – all these had Rosalie enjoyed, even with the fear that the Bruces would turn around; and now! Think of making one stage of the picturesque journey with no companion but her own thoughts! It seemed too good to be true; and she soon found that indeed it was so.

      The driver drew his horses to a walk, and Rosalie perceived that many of the other stages were in sight, some of them stopping, and that tourists were entering them from the roadside.

      Soon it became the turn of the last stage, and Rosalie’s heart bounded to recognize all the companions of the morning.

      She saw Mrs. Bruce gaze sharply at the stout man in her seat by the driver.

      “Won’t your mother go up there, Nixie?” asked Irving.

      Mrs. Nixon refusing, her son put Miss Maynard up, the young woman climbing to the place with alacrity.

      Rosalie turned her head to gaze fixedly at the other side of the road. She grew warm as she felt some one climb into the seat beside her, but did not turn her head back, even when the coach started.

      Finding herself not addressed, presently she turned about and looked squarely into the eyes of Betsy Foster.

      “How do you do, Rosalie?” said the latter composedly.

      “O Betsy!” exclaimed the girl softly, and seized the older woman’s hand with an appealing grasp.

      Betsy gave her one-sided smile, and Rosalie’s eyes filled.

      “You don’t seem surprised!” she said unsteadily.

      “I