he next morning. "Adele will return with me."

"Very well, father," acquiesced Beatrice apathetically. She was pale,
with deep circles under her eyes, and looked as though she had not
slept.

"I am afraid that you worked too hard on that dinner," commented the
naturalist with solicitude. "Do you not feel well?"

"I am quite well, thank you, father," returned the girl gravely.

"I shall be glad when your cousin comes," remarked he. "I fear that I
have kept you too close to study this summer."

"No, no," denied Bee. "I am just tired, that is all."

What difference did it make to him whether she had worked too hard or
not, she asked herself with all the injustice of girlhood. Finding her
loath to converse her father relapsed into silence, and the breakfast
ended drearily.

Then he left, and Bee sat down on the verandah steps to face the
situation. It was over. All the delightful companionship, the long
walks, the cataloguing,--everything. She dropped her head into her
hands, and sobbed.

"Beatrice Raymond," said the voice of Percival, "what in the world is
the matter? I have called twice and you did not answer."

"I didn't hear you." Bee raised her head, and looked at him dully.

"Are you mad at me?" he queried.

"No."

"You didn't think that I would ever come over to see you again, did
you?" asked the Prodigy seating himself beside her with easy grace.

"I did not think anything about it," replied the girl shortly.

"You are cross," exclaimed Percival in aggrieved tones. "If you are not
mad, I don't see why you should be cross to me. Aren't you mad?"

"No, no," returned Bee impatiently. "See here, Percival! I am in
trouble. Won't you go away, and not bother me?"

The boy rose slowly.

"Of course, if I bother you, I'll go," he said with dignity. "If you are
in trouble you ought not to be left alone. Thinking is bad, my mother
says. Where is your father?"

"He has gone away," replied Bee briefly. "He won't be back until
tonight."

"Then I am not going," declared Percival firmly. "That is, not unless
you will go with me. Why can't you come over and stay with mamma and me,
Beatrice?"

"I don't want to," said Bee miserably. "I just want to be left alone."

"That is what I'm not going to do," declared the boy obstinately. "You
ought not to be, you know. I'll tell you what: come over, and let me
play to you. That will drive all your troubles away."

"If I go over for a little while to listen to you, w