There was a piece of paper in her pocket on
which was marked, in her clumsy handwriting, "If Betsey Lane should
meet with accident, notify the selectmen of Byfleet;" but having made
this slight provision for the future, she had thrown herself boldly
into the sea of strangers, and then had made the joyful discovery that
friends were to be found at every turn.
There was something delightfully companionable about Betsey; she had a
way of suddenly looking up over her big spectacles with a reassuring
and expectant smile, as if you were going to speak to her, and you
generally did. She must have found out where hundreds of people came
from, and whom they had left at home, and what they thought of the
great show, as she sat on a bench to rest, or leaned over the railings
where free luncheons were afforded by the makers of hot waffles and
molasses candy and fried potatoes; and there was not a night when she
did not return to her lodgings with a pocket crammed with samples of
spool cotton and nobody knows what. She had already collected small
presents for almost everybody she knew at home, and she was such a
pleasant, beaming old country body, so unmistakably appreciative and
interested, that nobody ever thought of wishing that she would move
on. Nearly all the busy people of the Exhibition called her either
Aunty or Grandma at once, and made little pleasures for her as best
they could. She was a delightful contrast to the indifferent, stupid
crowd that drifted along, with eyes fixed at the same level, and
seeing, even on that level, nothing for fifty feet at a time.
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