"Betty, child," her uncle's voice broke in upon Betty's orderly packing
one afternoon, "I know you're going to be disappointed, but we mustn't
cry over what can't be helped. I've had a wire and must leave for
Chicago Wednesday morning. You and Bob will have to make the Washington
trip alone."
"I knew it was too good to be true," mourned Betty, a tear dropping on
the yellowed silk shawl she was neatly folding. "Oh, dear, Uncle Dick, I
did want you to go with us part of the way!"
"Better luck next time," replied Mr. Gordon. "There's no use grumbling
over what you can't change."
This was his philosophy, and he followed it consistently. Bob and Betty,
though keenly disappointed they were not to have his companionship, tried
to accept the situation as cheerfully as he did.
The packing was hastened, and soon the old farmhouse was stripped and
dismantled, the trunks stored in the Watterby attic, the furniture
carried off to the homes of those who bought it, and the key delivered
to Dave Thorne, the section foreman, who would deliver it to the
superintendent.
The hospitable Watterbys had insisted that the travelers should all stay
with them until the time for their several departures, and Bob and Betty
had a last glorious ride on Clover and the ungainly white horse while
the aunts rested and put the final touches to their preparations for
their journey.
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