embling in the balance it's impossible not to be
anxious."

Mrs. Bell's face was so solemn, and her words so portentous, that
Beatrice was really taken in. It was stupid of her to misunderstand the
good woman, but she did.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked, turning to look at Mrs. Bell.
"Whose fate is trembling in the balance?"

If it had been possible for light blue eyes of a very common shade and
shape to wither with a look, poor Beatrice would never have got over
that terrible moment.

Stout Mrs. Bell dropped her companion's arm, moved two or three paces
away, and accompanied her scorching glance with words of muffled
thunder.

"Beatrice Meadowsweet, you are either green with jealousy, or you are a
perfect goose."

CHAPTER XX.

YOU CAN TAKE ANY RANK.

Beatrice was not, in any sense of the word, a conventional girl. Her
nature was independent, and from her earliest days she had been allowed
a great deal of liberty. While her father lived he had trained her to
love his tastes, to respond to his ideas; he had shared his thoughts
with her, and as these thoughts happened to be original, and even
slightly tinged with latent genius, the young girl had from the first
taken a broad view of life. She was naturally intelligent; and to read
and think for herself became a delight to her.

Mr. Meadowsweet died when Beatrice was twelve and then that further
thing happened which so often makes an unselfish woman really noble.
Beatrice had to support the burdens of another. Mrs. Meadowsweet was a
most loving and affectionate character; but she was not as strong
mentally as her daughter. She did not know that she leant on Beatrice,
but she did. The effect of all this was that Miss Meadowsweet grew up
something as the wild flowers do, with perfect liberty, and yet governed
by the gracious and kindly laws which nature sets about her children.

Beatrice did not know what it was to be proud of her reputed wealth.
When she looked at her sweet face in the glass she was not vain of it.
Altogether, she was a very simple-hearted girl, as yet untouched by real
trouble, for, except when her father died, its shadow had not approached
her.

The passionate, childish sorrow for her father was no longer poignant.
She revered his memory, she loved to dwell on his gentleness and
goodness, and in her own manner she tried to plant her young footsteps
in his.

On the morning after the Rector's feast, Beatrice sat at home and wa