"And I," she said, "will not be treated at all, and I am surprised that you finally came to visit me professionally instead of as my dear friend." She turned a languis.h.i.+ng glance upon me, and for the first time I met Betsy face to face, with her eyes open, the pair of us meeting as equals without the protective barriers of my office and hypnosis and sightlessness, and I perceived, looking at Betsy, that she was as fully and acutely aware of this as I was.

"Well?" she said, amused.

I took a deep breath, endeavoring to resume my control of myself, and said as quietly as I could manage, "I see that you have your eyes open."

She nodded, and hugged herself, and laughed, and grinned, and widened her eyes to show me, and turned herself around gaily. "I told you, I told you, I told you," she chanted, and then, coming close to me and looking slyly into my face, "and what are you going to do about it, old eye-closer?"

I surmised that for all her posturing and bravado she was still honestly in awe of me and upon that surmise-indeed, the only hope left us-I decided to base my own actions. Smiling back at her placidly, I seated myself upon the edge of the bed and took out my pipe. "I understood that you were ill," I said conversationally.

"She was; I am never ill."

"Then," I said ironically, "a good doctor like myself ought rightly to allow you to remain until the course of Miss R.'s infection has run itself out."

She laughed. "I believe I have done her good," she said complacently. "If she hadn't been weak and sick, I couldn't have gotten out, and if I hadn't gotten out, she would still be weak and sick." She spread her hands as one who demonstrates an utterly reasonable point. "So you see I am good," she said. She seated herself on the chair next the bed and looked at me soberly. "Doctor Wright," she said-and I have never seen Betsy so demure-"don't you think that now I am out, I should be allowed to stay?"

She must have mistaken my silence for a hesitation as to whether or not I should agree with her, for she went on persuasively, "You can see that I am healthier and happier than she is, and I have been very patient for a long time, and it's only fair to give me a chance. Besides," she went on as I started to speak, "all that I used to say about wanting to do you harm and wanting to hurt her was only because I was so tired of being a prisoner and I just wanted to get out and be happy and not be a prisoner any more, and-"

"Betsy," I said gently, "how can I let you stay? Think of Elizabeth, think of Beth."

"Why should I think of them just because you care more for them than you do for me, and you expect me to give up just because you decide you'd rather have them?"

I repressed a smile at her impulsive self-interest, and told myself again that she was in actuality little more than a child, and so I said tolerantly, "Well, Betsy, suppose I make a bargain with you? Suppose I agree to let you stay tonight?"

"Let me have a week, then," she said. "A week, and no one to bother me."

"But Miss R. is ill."

"She will be well," said Betsy grimly, and then looked at me, all innocence. "At least," Betsy said, "she will not be delirious any more."

"Of course," I said, realizing. "It was you."

"I had a lovely time," Betsy said. "And poor Aunt Morgen outside the door, wringing her hands and trembling."

I could not point out to Betsy the callousness of this, any more than I could explain to her childish mind the impossibility of letting her take over, as it were, the whole personality of Miss R.; all I could do, as one does with a difficult child, was to pretend to fall in with her plans, reserving privately the right to determine with my own-and, I must say, my superior-judgment, what was best for all of us. Consequently, I continued blandly, "So, my dear Betsy, are we agreed, then? If I consent to your staying out for a day or so, will you then co-operate with me in helping to heal Miss R.?"

"I will," she said earnestly, and I do believe she thought she meant it. "I will do all I can, if I can only be free, sometimes, and be happy for a little while."

"That does not sound unreasonable," I conceded. "Now will you go back into bed and go quietly to sleep?"

"I never sleep," she told me. "I lie there inside all the time."

Again I must repress my amus.e.m.e.nt; how many children have we heard, who declare absolutely that they do not sleep, that they never sleep, that they would not know how to sleep if they tried? However, I only said, "Will you let Elizabeth come back, very briefly, then, so that I may put her under hypnosis for a minute and tell her to feel better?"

She considered, chin on hands. "Even if you do not sleep," I added solemnly, "Elizabeth must rest, and I propose a brief suggestion or two from myself to effect that. There is nothing in any case for you to do tonight unless you decide to keep your unfortunate aunt wringing her hands outside your door again, and so, if you want any freedom at all, you would be most wise to help Miss R. regain her health."

"She's no use to me sick," said Betsy agreeably. "Even if I feel well Aunt Morgen wouldn't let her go anywhere."

"That's true," I said, thanking heaven for the dragon downstairs. "But you must also promise," I added, "that while you are free you do not in any way attempt to harm Miss R. By stuffing her with sweets, for instance, or damaging her in the eyes of her friends."

"Or making her walk in front of a train," said Betsy, grinning. "You must think I'm crazy," she said, and giggled.

I stood up from the bed, and attempted to smooth the tumbled sheets. "Now hop into bed like a good girl," I said, with a heavy and most reluctant attempt at heartiness. I patted her shoulder as she climbed into the bed, thinking how extraordinarily different Betsy was from Elizabeth or Beth; I felt like an uncle putting a bad child to bed, and even Miss R.'s grown-up person did not detract from the strong avuncular feeling. I pulled the blankets up under her chin, and then sat on the bed beside her. "Now show me how you let Miss R. come back," I said, and then, as I spoke, I saw her eyes turn on me dully, and knew that without my perceiving it Betsy had withdrawn herself swiftly and completely and Miss R. lay there before me, wide-eyed and startled, as any young girl might be, who wakes up from what must have seemed a heavy sleep to find a man, albeit her doctor, sitting familiarly upon the edge of her bed and apparently continuing a conversation with her.

"Doctor Wright!" she said, recognizing me, and she attempted to sit up, but I put her gently back.

"It's all right," I told her soothingly. "You have been ill, and your aunt has sent for me." She lay back, still uneasy, and I spoke to her gently, telling her that she had called out for me in her sleep, and that her aunt had felt that I might be able to help her, so there I was, and I was planning to "put her to sleep" for only a minute or so. I could see that she had been very ill; her face was substantially thinner in even the few days since I had seen her, and she was pale and so weak that she could not protest hypnosis; I subdued her easily into a light trance, and then, speaking hastily, and dropping my voice for fear Miss Jones might be listening outside, I said, "Beth-Beth, is it you?"

She stirred, and smiled, and said, "My dear friend, I have been longing to hear your voice." My poor Beth, too, was wasted and pale, and it saddened me to see her sweet face worn by illness and hear her soft voice so tired; "Dear Beth," I said, taking her hand, "I am sorry you have been so unwell, but we will soon have you better."

"I am better now," she said, "with you here."

"But, Beth, you must do something for me, something extremely important; do you think you can? It will help me, and help you to be well much sooner."

"I can do whatever you tell me to."

I hesitated only a minute, debating how most forcefully to drive home my point; then I said urgently, "This is what you must do; you must insist, constantly and as strongly as you know how, that you are recovered from your illness; you must watch constantly for signs of weakness and absent-mindedness; keep insisting upon your own strength and control. Try to keep your aunt near by as much as possible. And, most important, resist absolutely any actions not usual to you. Be vigilant. If you feel yourself compelled to misbehave before your friends, or to consume quant.i.ties of sweet things, or to throw yourself before a train, or to do any of a hundred things which would ordinarily not occur to you, fight against the impulse. Now, can you promise me all this?"

"I promise," she said, whispering.

"I will help you all I can, and stay as close to you as possible. It is more important than I can tell you now, but someday I will explain it all to you."

"If you want me to, I will do it," she said.

"Dear Beth," and I pressed her hand.

She opened her eyes, grinning. "I bet you never dreamed I could do Beth so well," Betsy said.

I know not how I stumbled down the stairs, past Miss Jones halfway; "Is she all right, Doctor?" I believe Miss Jones asked me, and I, shaking my head blindly, made my way somehow to the door, and abandoned that house.

A general who retreats while his army is strong, and able to fight, is a coward, but who can condemn a warrior who, shorn of weapons, seeing his allies desert him, confronted by a field upon which his adversary reigns triumphant, withdraws from battle? I sat up late that night composing a letter to Miss Jones, resigning her niece's care; I told her I was old and ill, I explained to her that my strength was inadequate, I described to her my many pressures of business and affairs, I recommended returning to Ryan, and suggested (with what pangs for my lovely Beth) that she seriously consider some good private inst.i.tution, and I closed, her humble servant, having covered four sides and said everything, except the truth, which I knew to be that I was badly frightened and unwilling to jeopardize my own health in the service of a girl who had misled me; I had placed my faith on Beth and been deceived, and although I could hardly condemn her for being no more than a weak p.a.w.n, my trust in her was gone. I wrote late, as I say, and very well (indeed, I have saved the letter, and it is before me now), but I might have slept that night, and saved my inadequate words.

In the morning, as I turned wearily from my writing desk, Miss Jones telephoned me again. In the levellest tones, as one who endeavors not to judge prematurely and unfairly, she told me that her niece had gone. Suitcase secretly packed, her clothes hastily a.s.sumed in the dead of night, our enemy had deceived us; Betsy had carried off Miss R. and Beth, we knew not when or where.

3.

BETSY.

Everything was going to be very very very good, so long as she remembered carefully about putting on both shoes every time, and not running into the street, and never telling them, of course, about where she was going; she recalled the ability to whistle, and thought, I must never be afraid.

She knew that the bus left at twelve; she had planned this more carefully than they ever suspected. She had been extremely clever about packing her suitcase softly and with tiny steps from the closet to the bed, and because she had known that she was going, by then, she had chosen only the most correct clothes for wearing outdoors and on a bus; she had taken a great deal of money from Aunt Morgen's pocketbook, she had tricked the doctor roundly. Even when they discovered she had gone, it was going to take them quite a while to learn all about the suitcase and the money and the bus; she had covered her tracks exceedingly well. Whistling, she came to the corner and thought, they will never expect that I know how to get on a taxi by myself, and it will take me to the bus station in time, too. "Take me to the bus station, please," she said to the taxi driver; these were the first free words she had ever spoken, but the taxi driver only nodded and took her to the bus station. She gave him a dollar bill from her pocketbook, he gave her back change, and she said "Thank you," and "Good night," when she closed the door of the taxi. No one turned, no one shouted, no one stopped to point at her and burst into laughter; everything was going to be very very very good.

She had eleven single dollar bills in her pocketbook, and the rest, some hundred-odd dollars she had taken from Aunt Morgen's wallet, was carefully hidden in the pocket of her suitcase, since under no circ.u.mstances must she be thought careless or a fool, and the loss of all her money, besides indicating that she was not entirely able, might put her into the uncomfortable position of having to ask strangers for help. She had determined with precision that as soon as she got off the bus again she would go to a hotel, where of course in a room of her own she would be able to open her suitcase in private and take out whatever money she wanted.

Since she had both money and time, she was able to have a cup of coffee in the bus station while she was waiting, and she bought herself, also, a magazine; she did not care to read, generally, but she was attracted by the bright cover and had observed that nearly all the people standing in the station carried magazines or books, and she must on no account be thought strange or different. She had a book in her suitcase, a large dictionary for use in case she needed help in talking or writing or spelling; in any case, since she intended eventually to dispose of all her possessions, the book, which was large and solidly printed, might be a source of money sometime if she needed it, but she must remember to cross out Lizzie's name on the first page. At present, it was perfectly safe with her money in the suitcase and was hardly worth removing just to seem to be reading on the bus. She finished her coffee and set the cup back into the saucer just as everyone else did, and got down from the stool and picked up her pocketbook and suitcase and went to the ticket window. Ahead of her a woman was telling the clerk, "One way to New York, please," and, since the clerk neither looked up nor laughed, this must be the usual manner of getting a ticket; she felt a deep grateful satisfaction for the clerk and for the woman ahead and for the man who sold coffee and to the taxi driver and for all this wholly strange world; "One way to New York, please," she said, careful to get the right inflection, and the clerk neither looked up nor smiled, but pa.s.sed her her change wearily. "How soon does the bus go?" she asked the clerk boldly, and he glanced at the clock and told her, without surprise, "Twelve minutes, side door."

Wondering what to do for twelve minutes, since it would certainly be remarked upon if she had another cup of coffee so soon after the first, she noticed a rack of picture postcards, and the idea of a farewell message came to her; they would naturally perceive that she had left them, but she could not forego the pleasure of telling them that they had driven her away. She chose two postcards, regretting that there were no pictures of the museum; she addressed the one with a picture of the monument to Aunt Morgen, writing with the pen which Lizzie always carried in the pocketbook. "You will never see me again," she wrote. "I am going to parts unknown. I hope you are sorry." And then, since the postcard seemed so unfeeling, and Aunt Morgen had, after all, never done her any active harm, she added, "Love, from E. R."

The other card she addressed, having saved this particular satisfaction for the last, to Doctor Wright, and for a minute she thought, pen in hand, of how most clearly and vividly in this small s.p.a.ce reserved for messages, to say what Doctor Wright needed to be told; the recollection of the imminent departure of the bus stirred her at last, and finally she wrote quickly, "Dear Doctor Wrong, never try to find me. I will never come back. I am going somewhere where people love me, and not like you. Yours very sincerely, Betsy." This message did not particularly please her, but there was no time to try another because the man was calling, "Bus to New York, side door, leaving in three minutes, bus to New York, side door, leaving in three minutes, bus to New York, side door. . . ."

She hurried out, following the woman who had been ahead of her in the ticket line, and climbed into the bus, marveling for a moment at its size and deep comfort, compared with the smaller busses Lizzie used to ride on her way to work at the museum. After hesitating for a minute inside the door she sat down next to the woman who had been ahead of her in the line, and then got up again to put her suitcase into the rack overhead, as she observed other people doing, because of course she must not seem to be different in any way, and must not have her suitcase on the floor next to her if everyone else had their suitcases in the rack over their heads. Once settled, her magazine and pocketbook in her lap, she leaned back and sighed, and turned her head slightly to see that the woman in the seat next to her was staring at her (had she done something to be stared at? Too slow with her suitcase? Too quick, leaning back?) and so she said hastily, "How long a trip do we have?"

"Where are you going?" asked the woman, raising her eyebrows.

"To New York, same as you."

The woman frowned, glanced forward at the driver, and then said, "How did you know I was going to New York?"

"I heard you buy a ticket, so I bought a ticket the same way."

"Oh?" said the woman, raising her eyebrows again and looking sideways.

It is not going to be safe to rely on anyone, Betsy thought with quick sad clarity, not anyone at all. This woman was old, as old as Aunt Morgen, looking tired and as though she did not much relish this night trip on a bus instead of a sleep at home in bed; it was not fair that a woman as old as Aunt Morgen and looking so tired should be untrustworthy as well. Perhaps even more than wis.h.i.+ng she was young again and full of life, the woman wished to be trusted by Betsy, because she turned now and made a big smile for Betsy alone, and said, "So you're going to New York?" and nodded, and turned her whole face and body at Betsy as though promising a home, and safety. Does she think that I am going to think that she is young again? Betsy wondered, and said, "I guess so. I mean, I have a ticket for New York, but I might decide to go somewhere else. Is New York exciting?"

"Not very," the woman said. She glanced again at the driver, and then leaned closer to Betsy. "No place is very exciting unless you have dear ones there," she said, and nodded again. "For me, New York is nothing-nothing. My dear ones are beyond."

Betsy looked past her at the dark window of the bus and thought suddenly that it was not, after all, impossible that they would not come after her; could that be Aunt Morgen's face peering in blindly through the gla.s.s, or the doctor gesturing imperiously from the station doorway? "How soon do we start?" she asked the woman, and the woman put a hand in a black glove over Betsy's hand, and said, "One longs to join them, dear, yearning for dear ones is sometimes almost a pain, a pain here," and she took her hand off Betsy's long enough to touch herself lingeringly on the breast, and then she put her hand down on Betsy's again.

But, Betsy thought, even if they knew now about the suitcase and the money and the bus (could that be Aunt Morgen, running, calling out, waving her handkerchief frantically?) they would never look for her talking to a dismal woman in black gloves, never look under the woman's hand to see if Betsy's hand lay there, and she sat back again, and turned her head courteously to the woman; they were two ladies engaged in conversation, and the bus stirred, and groaned. The driver nodded rea.s.suringly at the station, the doors of the bus closed, and then the bus moved hugely out of the station and into the street (the doctor, was it? Stepping from a taxi, shaking his umbrella?) and then gathered speed toward the edge of town. "I guess we've started," Betsy said happily.

"-very fortunate," the woman said. "I, you see, have no dear ones awaiting me in New York. A child like yourself can never understand-"

Goodbye, goodbye, Betsy thought, turning to see the town behind them. Goodbye.

"Beyond, if only I might reach them."

"Why can't you reach them?" Betsy turned back and looked curiously at the woman who still had her hand over Betsy's and was now using the other hand to wipe at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Where are they?"

"In Chicago. I am unfortunately absolutely without means of traveling farther than New York. A child like yourself, unsuspicious, happy, free-a child like yourself, with an ample allowance-"

"I haven't got an allowance," Betsy said, and giggled. "All I have is what I got from Aunt Morgen."

"Perhaps a small loan-"

"Thank you anyway, but I have enough," Betsy said. "It's in my suitcase."

The woman glanced up, briefly, and then pressed Betsy's hand. "Such a sweet child," she said. "What is your name, dear?"

"Betsy."

"Is that all?"

Suddenly, perhaps because Betsy had been listening and looking through the window at the moving lights, or perhaps even just because she had allowed herself to become excited and interested-Lizzie got out, and she looked coldly at the woman while Betsy, caught completely off guard, struggled and tried to catch control again, and Lizzie said, "I beg your pardon?" and then looked wonderingly around the bus.

"I only said 'What is your name?'" the woman said, drawing back.

"Elizabeth Richmond, madam. How do you do?"

"How do you do?" said the woman weakly, and then Betsy caught onto a deep breath and put Lizzie under again, and said as politely as she could, "I don't want to talk any more now, thank you. You've been very nice, but I would rather not talk any more."

Without, she hoped, being particularly rude, she got up and went to an empty seat at the back of the bus; she could hardly try to take down her suitcase with the bus moving so quickly, but it was more important to be where she need not talk to anyone, and she could watch her suitcase easily from here. The woman with whom she had been sitting turned once, and looked at her, and then, shaking her head a little, glanced up at the suitcase and then opened her book to read. That's good, Betsy thought; perhaps she didn't even notice Lizzie speaking up like that; perhaps she has a Lizzie of her own.

Although Betsy did not sleep, and did not think she ever had, it was of course necessary for Elizabeth to sleep; ever since Betsy had been a prisoner she had watched while Elizabeth slept, lying far back in her own hidden corner of the mind, inert and almost helpless, looking as though up through a dizzying fog at the world of Elizabeth's dreams, seeing the dim figures of Elizabeth's world when Elizabeth's eyes were open, and the screaming phantoms of Elizabeth's nightmares when Elizabeth's eyes were shut; she had lain there crying out, soundless and numb, helpless to move Elizabeth's hands or feet, frantic for motion, for sight, for speech, paralyzed and wrapped in agonizing silence; now, riding the surface of Elizabeth's mind, she indulgently permitted Elizabeth to dream, and luxuriated in the picture of Elizabeth down there, dumb and helpless and waiting. Beyond Elizabeth, in the far kingdom of the mind, Beth lay, moving drowsily, unaware, not watchful, lost in soundless shadows. Betsy could feel that they were beneath, ready to rouse, as she had been, to any sharp sight or sound calling them awake. Now, Elizabeth slept, and frowned a little, and turned uncomfortably in the soft seat of the bus, and swayed with the movement of the bus, and Betsy lay back against the soft cus.h.i.+on of Elizabeth's dreams, planning what she was going to do, now that she was free.

She knew that she was going to get off the bus in New York, and follow everyone else out of the bus station into the street (it would be a street, she supposed, much like that she had left behind; she must not let her fears of strangeness carry her into imaginary difficulties; she must be prepared to a.s.sume a certain steadiness upon the part of the world outside) and then take a taxi, as she had done to get to the bus station-only now, she supposed, it would be daylight, and consequently easier to find a taxi, and she could look out the windows as they traveled. She would then go to a hotel. Aunt Morgen had stayed once at a hotel named Drewe; this, since she knew from Aunt Morgen's staying there that it must be a proper place and suitable for a lady traveling alone (Aunt Morgen had surely been traveling alone?) would be the best place for her to go at first. Later, when she had had time to unpack her suitcase and perhaps look around a little and get to know the city, she would move to another hotel whose name Aunt Morgen would not know; she could not remember whether Doctor Wrong had ever mentioned being familiar with the names of any hotels in New York, but thought she might safely a.s.sume that he would not be acquainted with the names of hotels suitable for ladies traveling alone. I have been very strictly brought up, she thought with satisfaction, and I shall be very well-behaved. Particularly she recalled that she had told both Aunt Morgen and Doctor Wrong that they would not be able to find her, so very likely they would not think of looking in New York, because in New York they might find her. A thought struck her, and she giggled-Elizabeth turning in her sleep-perhaps, she thought, she should have sent postcards to Lizzie and Beth, telling them goodbye; I'll do that first chance I get, she promised herself, I'll write them each a nice card from the hotel, it's no more than they deserve. Elizabeth stirred again, and groaned, and Betsy was still, wanting Elizabeth to stay asleep.

All during the dark hours of the night the bus moved on, going smoothly and rocking Elizabeth gently; because it was important not to seem wakeful when everyone else was sleeping Betsy closed her eyes, and a kind of wonder came to her, at herself going alone through the night. She was for the first time in the indifferent hands of strangers, entrusting her person to the tenderness of the bus driver, her name to the woman napping in the seat far ahead; she was going to spend the rest of her life in a room belonging to someone else and she would eat at a stranger's table and walk streets she did not recognize under a sun she had never seen, waking, before. Soon no one would even know her face; Doctor Wrong would forget and Aunt Morgen would be looking for Elizabeth; from this moment on no eyes which looked upon her would ever have seen her before; she was a stranger in a world of strangers and they were strangers she had left behind; "Who am I?" Betsy whispered in wonder, and not even Elizabeth heard, "where am I going?"

It was, then, urgently important to be some person, to have always been some person; in all the world she was entering there was not anyone who was not some particular person; it was vital to be a person. "I am Betsy Richmond," she said over and over quietly to herself, "I was even born in New York. And my mother's name is Elizabeth Richmond, Elizabeth Jones before she was married. My mother was born in Owenstown, but I was born in New York. My mother's sister is named Morgen, but I never knew her very well." Invisible in the darkness of the bus, Betsy grinned. "My name is Betsy Richmond," she whispered, "and I am going alone to New York because I am easily old enough to travel alone. I am going to New York on a bus by myself and when I get to New York I am going to a hotel in a taxi. My name is Betsy Richmond, and I was born in New York. My mother loves me more than anything. My mother's name is Elizabeth Richmond, and my name is Betsy and my mother always called me Betsy and I was named after my mother. Betsy Richmond," she whispered softly into the unhearing movement of the bus, "Betsy Richmond."

"My mother," she went on, half-remembering, and Elizabeth moaned, and pressed her hands together, and dreamed. "My mother was angry with her Betsy and now I am alone, I am on a bus going to New York; I am old enough to travel alone and my name is Betsy Richmond, Elizabeth Jones before I was married. 'Betsy is my darling,' my mother used to say, and I used to say 'Elizabeth is my darling,' and I used to say, 'Elizabeth likes Robin best.' "

Betsy sat up straight in the bus, so suddenly that Elizabeth half-awakened and opened her eyes and said "Doctor?" "No, no," Betsy said, and then, s.h.i.+vering, looked around to see if she had made any loud noise, if she had forgotten to be careful while everyone else was sleeping. It's Robin, she thought, Robin nearly woke up Lizzie. She waited a minute, trying to see through the darkness of the bus; the driver ahead seemed calm enough, and then someone far down on one side moved, and sighed deeply, and Betsy sat back in relief; it's all right, she thought, other people move and make sounds; no one cares. She sat back and looked out the window; I don't even know where Robin is, anymore, she thought, and he wouldn't remember me any more than anyone else, even if he saw me Robin would think I was someone he didn't know at all, and if my mother knew about him he'd be sorry. My mother loves me best, anyway, Betsy told herself forlornly, my mother was only teasing about not loving me best, my mother pulled my hair and laughed and said "Elizabeth loves Robin best," and my mother loves me better than anyone. My name is Betsy Richmond and my mother's name is Elizabeth Richmond and she calls me Betsy. Robin did everything bad.

She wanted to get up and move around, but dared not; it was important for Elizabeth to sleep, and even if she did go up-say-to the driver and ask him how fast they were going, or when they would reach New York, or whether his name was Robin, people would notice her and look at her, because for all she knew it might be extremely unusual for people to wonder how fast the bus was going. Thinking of Robin always made her very nervous, however, and it was important not to be nervous or afraid, and she twisted her hands together and rubbed her eyes and bit at her lip; what must I do, she wondered, if I see Robin somewhere in New York?

The bus went widely around a curve, and Betsy fell against the side of the seat and giggled; it's fun, she thought. Then, suddenly very happy because she was running away, after all, and no one could find her-so how would she find Robin, then?-she sat back and folded her hands and spoke to herself very sternly.

If I'm going to keep it all straight and make a real person by myself, she told herself silently, Robin has to be in it like anyone else; he can't get out of it as easily as that. And besides, everyone who remembers at all has bad things to remember along with good things; it would seem very funny to people if all I had for a life I remembered was good things. There have to be some bad things or it looks funny. So keep Robin in, because he was bad and nasty. We went on a picnic, Robin and my mother and me. No, she thought then, shaking her head, if it's going to be in, it's all got to be in, right from the beginning, the way things ought to be remembered, so start the remembering right from the beginning of that day, right from the top, and remember it all. No one ever remembers just a bad thing, they remember all around it, all that happened before it and after it, and of course, she told herself consolingly, one bad thing is probably enough, and when they ask you what do you remember that's bad and nasty you can say Robin, and that will satisfy them. So, she went on silently, I woke up in the morning that day and the sun was s.h.i.+ning and the blanket on my bed was blue. There was a green dress hanging on the bottom of my bed and I thought it would look funny with the blue blanket but it didn't. I heard my mother downstairs and she was saying "A wonderful day for a picnic with my Betsy, a wonderful wonderful day," and I knew she was saying it to me and saying it on the way upstairs over and over so I would wake up hearing her say it. And then she came in and she was smiling and the sun was s.h.i.+ning brightly on her face, and I can't remember how she looked that morning because of the sun s.h.i.+ning on her face. "A wonderful day for my Betsy," she said, "a wonderful wonderful day for a picnic, let's go to the bay." And she came and tickled me and I rolled out of bed and she hit me with the pillow and I was laughing. Then she said "Peanut b.u.t.ter" and ran out of the room, and I said "Jelly," calling it after her and I put on the green dress and went downstairs and I had oranges and toast for breakfast that morning because it was hot. My mother made peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches and jelly sandwiches and all the time I was eating my orange she would look at me and say "Peanut b.u.t.ter" and I would look back at her and say "Jelly," and it was funny because she wanted peanut b.u.t.ter and I wanted jelly and it was funny that two people who loved each other and had the same name liked two different things like that. She made hard-boiled eggs and packed everything in a basket with cookies and a thermos bottle full of lemonade and then my mother said "Let's take your poor old Robin along with us, Betsy, my girl. Because poor old Robin is lonesome and he is Elizabeth's darling," and I said "Jelly," and she made a face at me and said "Peanut b.u.t.ter, but let's take him anyway."

I pretended to throw a hard-boiled egg at my mother but she went anyway and telephoned Robin and told him to come right away and we took our bathing suits. Robin and my mother and Betsy went on the streetcar out to the bay and my mother and Betsy put on their bathing suits and Robin put on his bathing suit and the water was warm and whenever Betsy splashed at my mother Robin splashed at Betsy and he said "Betsy is a mean mean girl" and the sun was bright and there was no one anywhere around. Robin and my mother and Betsy ate the hard-boiled eggs and the peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches and when Betsy said "Jelly" my mother said "Betsy, must you tease all the time?" and everyone lay down on the beach in the sun. Then my mother said, "Betsy, my nuisance, go down along the beach and collect seventy-three sh.e.l.ls all the prettiest you can find, and we will be sirens and make them into a crown for our Robin." Betsy went down the beach and gathered sh.e.l.ls, and she was all alone, not even strangers near her, and the water on one side and the beach on the other side and the rocks beyond, and she was singing, "I love coffee, I love tea, I love Betsy and Betsy loves me," and matching sh.e.l.ls because she was the sea-king's daughter and she was gathering the eyes of drowned sailors to ransom her love from the sea-king's prison in the rocks. There was an empty popcorn box, and it was a coral chest where she put her jewels, and the two rocks were her throne, and when she sang the waves came running up to her feet, and she was s.h.i.+pwrecked, and living alone on an island, and the empty popcorn box was washed up on the sh.o.r.e, and inside it she found corn to plant, and a hammer to build a house. She made plates and pots out of sand, and baked them in the sun, and overhead she had a roof of seaweed and it kept out the sun. The rocks were her signal tower, to light a fire for pa.s.sing s.h.i.+ps. Pirates came by, and captured her, and the rocks were the cabin of the pirate s.h.i.+p where they kept the gold, and they sank a merchant s.h.i.+p and made all the sh.e.l.ls walk the plank, and the popcorn box was full of emeralds and pearls. Then Betsy stood up suddenly, feeling cold, and the sh.e.l.ls fell out of her lap and the rocks were rocks again and the sand was only scuffed and piled instead of plates and growing corn and there were no drowned sailors in the bay. "I stayed away too long," Betsy thought, and she gathered up her sh.e.l.ls in the popcorn box and walked fast, because she was cold, and she heard Robin saying, "Leave the d.a.m.n kid with Morgen next time."

"No," said Betsy, loudly enough so that people in the bus heard her, and someone turned around to look; I was having a nightmare, she thought violently, having a nightmare, is all. She waited, tense, and then people turned and moved and fell asleep again, and no one knew that Betsy was even awake, or had been awake at all.

"My name is Betsy Richmond," she began again at last, whispering, "and my mother's name is Elizabeth Richmond, Elizabeth Jones before she was married. . . ."

When the bus stopped at last and people stirred and opened their eyes and a man down the aisle stood up and began to put on his coat, Betsy was relieved at having no longer to watch the same inside of the bus, and the windows which, whatever they framed, made it look all the same; she was among the first people standing, and she made her way hastily down the aisle, edging past the man putting on his coat, to where her suitcase was, just as the woman in the black gloves stood up and lifted Betsy's suitcase down. "Good morning," the woman said, smiling at Betsy. "Did you sleep? I'll take the bag, dear."

"I want my suitcase," Betsy said. It was not usual, she knew, to struggle over a suitcase in a bus, and she must not be angry, so she took hold of the woman's arm and said again, "I want my suitcase, please."

"I'll carry it for you," the woman said, smiling brightly at the other people in the bus. "Dear," she added, bringing her smile around again to Betsy.

This was wrong and very unfortunate. "I want my suitcase," Betsy said once more, not knowing what else to say, and not sure just how far she might trust herself to show anger; here, in a situation like this, was where her unpreparedness showed most clearly-how angry, really, might a person be when her suitcase was taken forcibly away from her? How reprehensible was this false smiling woman, with her unreal sprightliness and her tawdry dull shoddy air; might Betsy strike her? Push her back? Call for help?

She turned, wanting advice, and met the eye of the bus driver; "I want my suitcase," Betsy said to him down the length of the bus, and, because most of the people had left by now, he came out of his seat and toward Betsy.

"Something wrong, lady?" he asked the woman who still had a clinging grasp on Betsy's suitcase, and who gave him her free black-gloved hand on his arm, with a sigh of relief; "I wish this child would behave," she said, with a gesture at Betsy that endeavored to exclude Betsy from the circle of maturity in which the woman and the bus driver were naturally included. "Alone in the big city," the woman said vividly.

The wickednesses of the city were not lost upon the bus driver; he nodded and regarded Betsy with sadness. "If people want to help you," he began, "seems like you ought to treat them nicer."