Betty's Happy Year

“Oh!” cried Miss Whittier, clasping her hands. “What can we do? But we must do something quickly. Lena Carey, you’re about Constance’s size; can’t you take the part of Goddess?”

“Oh, I’d love to, Miss Whittier,” said Lena, looking longingly at the spangled white mass in the box, which had just been opened, “but I don’t know a word of her lines. It’s all I can do to remember my own.”

“What shall I do!” cried Miss Whittier, in despair. “Does anybody know the Goddess’s part? Oh, why didn’t I think to have an understudy!”

Betty hesitated. It seemed presumptuous for her to offer, for she well knew she didn’t look like Miss Whittier’s idea of a Goddess of Honor. But no one else volunteered, so she said:

“Miss Whittier, I don’t look right, I know, but I know every one of Constance’s lines perfectly.”

“You blessed child!” cried Miss Whittier; “do you really? Are you sure, Betty?”

For answer, Betty began rapidly, and with no attempt at dramatic effect:

“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those who nobly and unflinchingly – ”

“That will do!” said Miss Whittier, smiling in spite of her anxiety. “Get out of that sailor suit, Betty, just as quick as you can, and get into Constance’s things.”

“Yes’m,” said Betty, her voice thrilling with intense excitement, “yes, Miss Whittier. I’ve been in them before, and I know just how they go.”

Several deft pairs of hands gave assistance; Miss Whittier herself gathered up Betty’s loose curls into a classic knot, and so well did she arrange it that, when the gilt crown was in place, the whole effect was harmonious, and Betty’s sparkling eyes lit up a face that any goddess might be pleased to own.

Mindful of Constance’s injunctions about tearing the delicate fabric, Betty gathered up her train and followed Miss Whittier to the stage.

As she passed, Dorothy took opportunity to whisper, “Oh, I am so glad”; and Jeanette gave her a loving pat as she went by.

The stage was draped entirely with white cheese-cloth, thickly sprinkled with gilt paper stars. A large pedestal stood ready for the Goddess, and on either side were two lower pedestals, occupied by her allegorical attendants, who, already in place, were wondering what had happened to the Goddess they were to serve.

Betty needed no instructions. She knew every pose Constance had been taught to take, as well as the lines themselves. Poising herself gracefully, she lifted her outstretched arm, with the long, slender trumpet, and placed the mouthpiece to her lips.

“Beautiful!” whispered Miss Whittier, delighted at Betty’s artistic, yet natural, pose.

“Don’t worry, Miss Whittier,” Betty whispered back; “I’ll do it all right!”

“You dear child! You’ve saved the day for us all. I know you’ll do it with credit to us all.”

Then Miss Whittier went in front of the curtain, and in a few words told of Constance’s accident, and explained that her part would be taken by Miss Elizabeth McGuire, for whom she begged indulgence if not perfect in her part.

Betty, behind the curtain, heard the applause, and thinking how surprised Jack and her mother would be, she stood motionless as the curtain rose.

Another storm of applause broke forth at the beautiful picture, and when it subsided, Betty, with just the least tremor of excitement in her voice, began:

“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those who nobly and unflinchingly do their bravest and best, I come unsummoned!”

The speech was not of great literary value; those in amateur entertainments rarely are; but Betty was a good elocutionist and full of dramatic instinct. Moreover, her sudden change from an inconspicuous figure to the chief one of all put her on her mettle, and she fairly outdid herself in rendering the opening speech.

The play went on beautifully. Not once did Betty falter, or forget a line. The others, too, all did their parts well, and when, at last, the Goddess of Honor placed the chaplet on the bowed head of Isabella of Spain, the picture was a beautiful one, and the house fairly rose in applause.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t feel sorry for Constance,” said Betty, to her mother, as they drove home. “I did, and I do, feel truly sorry. But when she couldn’t be there, and Miss Whittier had to have somebody, I was so glad I knew the part and could take it.”

“You needn’t tell me, dear,” said her mother; “I know too well my Betty’s generous heart to think for a moment that you rejoiced at Constance’s accident. But I, too, am glad that, since poor Constance couldn’t be there, my little girl could be of such help to Miss Whittier, and could, all unexpectedly, succeed so well in what was really a difficult part.”

“You are a trump, Betty,” said Jack, “and I’m glad you had the chance. I’m downright sorry for Connie, but I’m jolly glad for you!”

IX

AN INDEPENDENCE DAY RECEPTION

Toward the latter part of June the McGuire family migrated to Denniston for the summer. The beautiful country place, on the outskirts of the little town of Greenborough, was looking its prettiest as they arrived one lovely afternoon and took possession.

“In some ways I’m glad to be back here,” said Betty, as they sat on the veranda after supper, “and in some ways I’m not.”

“That’s the way with ’most everything,” commented Jack, philosophically; “there are always some good sides and some bad sides to whatever we do. I love Denniston, but there’s more to do in Boston.”

“And more people,” said Betty.

“Yes,” agreed Jack; “I’ve always noticed there are more people in a large city than in a small village.”

Betty threw a hammock pillow at him, and went on: “I mean more people that I like to be with. I shall miss Dorothy and Jeanette awfully down here.”

“You might invite them to visit you,” suggested her mother.

“I would; but it’s rather dull here. There’s nothing special for them to do, you see; they usually go to watering-places in the summer, and I doubt if they’d want to come here.”

“Oh, pshaw, Betty!” said Jack. “They’d like to come, just to see you. And Denniston Hall is a lovely place. A flock of girls ought to be able to make fun for themselves here.”

“That’s so,” said Betty; “anyhow, I’ll ask them, and if they don’t want to come, they can decline. I’ll ask Constance too, and perhaps Lena – that is, if you are willing, Mother.”

“Do,” said her mother. “Make it a little house-party. With picnics and drives you can make it pleasant for them, I’m sure.”

Just then Agnes Graham and her brother Stub came strolling up the driveway, and heartily welcomed the Denniston people back to their summer home.

“You’re just in time,” said Agnes, as the young people grouped themselves in the wicker chairs on the veranda or in the swinging settee; “have you heard about the Library Benefit?”

“No,” said Betty; “what is it?”

“Oh, somebody’s going to give a whole lot of money for a town library, if the town will raise another whole lot of money itself. And so everybody in Greenborough is planning to do something to help. And we thought, that is, we hoped, you’d join with the Dorcas Club, and help us.”

“I’d like to,” said Betty, “but tell me more about it.”

“Well, the truth is, Betty, the girls of the Dorcas Club haven’t really made any definite plans, and they want you to suggest something – only they’re afraid to ask you.”

“Afraid to ask me!” exclaimed Betty. “Why?”

“Oh, they think you’re so haughty and stuck-up since you’ve lived in Boston that they’re afraid you won’t want to work with us.”

“Agnes Graham, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Have you ever known me to act a bit haughty?”

“No, I haven’t. But the other girls don’t know you as well as I do, and they say that.”