pleasure sometimes. 'He is a very kind friend, and a perfect host; but
there is no reason why he should care about my coming or going, you
know.'

'Everybody must care to have you come, and be sorry to have you go,
Betty.'

'"Everybody" is a general term, ma'am, and always leaves room for
important exceptions. I shall have his respect, and my own too, better
if I go now.'

'My dear, I cannot have you!' said Mrs. Dallas uneasily, but afraid to
ask a question. 'No, we shall not stay here for the winter. Wait a
little longer, Betty, and we will take you down into the country, and
make the tour of England. It is more beautiful than you can conceive.
Wait till we have seen Westminster Abbey; and then we will go. You can
grant me that, my dear?'

Betty did not know how to refuse.

'Has Pitt got over his extravagancies of last year?' the older lady
ventured, after a pause.

'I do not think he gets over anything,' said Betty, with inward bitter
assurance.

The day came that had been fixed for a visit to the Abbey. Pitt had not
been eager to take them there; had rather put it off. He told his
mother that one visit to Westminster Abbey was nothing; that two visits
were nothing; that a long time and many hours spent in study and
enjoyment of the place were necessary before one could so much as begin
to know Westminster Abbey. But Mrs. Dallas had declared she did not
want to _know_ it; she only desired to see it and see the monuments;
and what could be answered to that? So the visit was agreed upon and
fixed for this day.

'You did not want to bring us here, because you thought we would not
appreciate it?' Betty said to Pitt, in an aside, as they were about
entering.

'Nobody can appreciate it who takes it lightly,' he answered.

That day remained fixed in Betty's memory for ever, with all its
details, sharp cut in. The moment they entered the building, the
greatness and beauty of the place seemed to overshadow her, and roused
up all the higher part of her nature. With that, it stirred into keen
life the feeling of being shut out from the life she wanted. The Abbey,
with the rest of all the wonders and antiquities and rich beauties of
the city, belonged to the accessories of Pitt's position and home;
belonged so in a sort to him; and the sense of the beauty which she
could not but feel met in the girl's heart with the pain which she
could not bid away, and the one heightened the other, after the strange
fashion that