nning, and she did the
cooking. You must praise her too, father. I never could have done it
without her."

"I am glad to hear you say that, Beatrice. I was afraid that you might
take all the credit to yourself, but I see that you are willing to share
honors."

Beatrice drew closer to him. There were times when she would have dearly
loved to have thrown her arms about his neck as she had seen Adele do
with her father, but Doctor Raymond was not a demonstrative man, and she
stood too much in awe of him to take the initiative. Just at the present
she felt closer to him than she had done since his return. He was proud
of her and showed it plainly. He was coming to care for her, even though
she was not pretty. He had been right. Beauty did not matter after all.
Oh, she would be so good, so good, and study so hard that he could not
help but love her. She was so happy. His hand still lay on her arm as if
he liked it to be there. A mist came into her eyes, and a lump into her
throat that caused her to breathe quickly.

"Beatrice!"

"Yes, father?"

"Did you know that your Uncle Henry was very ill?"

"No; I am sorry to hear it. Are they at home?"

"Yes; they returned from Annie's mother's just as soon as Henry began to
feel bad. He must have the utmost quiet. Even I am not allowed to see
him. And, Beatrice--"

"Yes, father?" spoke Bee again.

"Adele must go away while he is so ill." Doctor Raymond spoke with some
hesitation. "Her mother wished her to stay with her grandmother, but she
is very unhappy at her separation from you, and she wishes to come here.
I wished to bring her with me today, but Annie insisted that you should
be consulted upon the matter first. You can have no objection, surely."

"Father!" Anguish and appeal were in Bee's voice. She turned from him
and covered her face with her hands.

"My daughter, are you still harboring resentment against your cousin on
account of my mistake? That would be unworthy of you."

"Don't," cried Bee, brokenly. "Don't, father!"

There was surprise and grave displeasure in Doctor Raymond's face. That
he was more than pained was evident. His daughter had never seemed so
womanly as she had that day, and now--he was perplexed. The man was more
acquainted with the ways of insects than he was with girls, and had Bee
been a butterfly rather than a most miserable girl he would have known
just what to do. As it was he stood in what seemed to Beatrice cold
disapproval.

"H