Percival made no answer, and silently they went through the orchard and across the field, and through the hedge into the garden beyond. Mrs.

Medulla greeted them pleasantly, as they entered.

"Good morning, Beatrice," she said, noting the girl's paleness instantly. "You have made quite a conquest of my son. He has never taken so to a girl before."

"She's different," spoke Percival sententiously, adjusting the music on the rack, and picking up his violin. "Other girls don't think of anything but dresses and things to wear. She doesn't tag after a fellow either. I like her. You must not talk any more, mamma. She is troubled, and I'm going to play to make her feel better."

"Very well," said the lady, with a faint smile. "Sit here by me, my dear," she added kindly to Beatrice.

The girl sank into a low chair by her side, comforted in spite of herself by their kindness. Presently the young violinist began to play.

Beatrice listened perfunctorily at first, but pretty soon she found herself caught, and held by his wonderful playing. On and on he played, not watching her with challenging, curious eyes to note the effect as before, but, like the true artist that he was, bending earnestly to the task of bringing comfort and consolation to her heart.

It was Beethoven that touched her most. Under the influence of his divine music Bee felt her heart strings relax, and as the mighty climax of the last movement swelled into ecstacy, infinite as the human soul, she burst into a flood of tears. At a glance from his mother Percival stole softly into the house, while the lady drew the girl into her arms.

"There!" she said, smoothing her hair gently. "That will do you good, my child."

Petting was what the girl needed, and soon her emotion spent itself.

When at last she was calm she looked up contritely.

"I should not have come over, and made so much trouble," she said.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Medulla; I will go home now. Thank you--"

"My dear," spoke the lady, drawing her back into her embrace, "suppose you tell me all about it."

Beatrice looked at her quickly, but seeing the sympathy in the older woman's eyes she broke out impulsively:

"I will. I will tell you the whole thing." Rapidly she poured forth all her grief. Told of Adele's changing the pictures, of her father's return and of his mistake in taking Adele for his daughter; of her cousin's beauty, and of her efforts to be like her; of her studies with her father; of the b.u.t.terfly dinner, and of her belief that with time she could win his love; and finally of Adele's coming; ending with, "If only I were pretty my father would love me, I know. If only I were pretty!"

"That is a woman's cry, child," observed the lady thoughtfully. "The desire for beauty is in every feminine heart. A pretty complexion, a captivating dimple, bright eyes and flowing tresses are desired more than all knowledge of books, or graces of the mind."

"I know," sighed the girl.

"Now, dear, you and I are going to have a little talk."

"Dear lady," spoke Bee in pleading tones, "don't, don't tell me that 'Handsome is that handsome does,' or that beauty of mind and soul will cause others to forget that one is homely. Father says that too, but he would not have come had he not thought that his daughter was a beautiful girl."

"I am not going to say those things, child." Mrs. Medulla laughed. "I am not fond of plat.i.tudes myself, although there is much truth in them.

Now, child, you feel hard toward your cousin for changing those pictures, don't you?"

Bee compressed her lips, and her eyes flashed.

"Yes," she said in a low tone, "and I'll never forgive her. Never!"

"Wait a minute, dear. It was not a nice thing, nor a kind thing for her to do, though I think it must have been pure girlish mischief. However, we are not concerned with that part of it. Beatrice, when would your father have come home had he not received the picture?"

"Why! not for two more years," cried Bee, a startled look flashing across her face.

"Exactly. Then if the exchange had not been made you would not have had the pleasure of your father's company at all this summer, would you?"

"N-no."

"Would you rather have him here now, even though such a mistake has been made, than to wait two years longer to see him?"

"Yes, yes, yes," cried Bee with intensity. "Oh, I don't see now how I could have borne to wait longer."

"Then, my dear, how about that feeling toward your cousin? Good has come out of it, no matter how she meant it. If you will think of that part of it, it will help you to feel toward her as you used to do, and you must do that, my child, for your own sake. Now whenever any hard thought of her comes, just think that she brought him back to you. It won't be easy at first, my dear, but you can do it. We will let that be, and pa.s.s on to other things. The case interests me very much, and I would like you to be so successful in winning his love that there would be no one of whom he would be so fond. Perhaps I can help you."

"If you will, I will do anything in the world for you," cried the girl earnestly.

"I am satisfied that it can be done, Beatrice. You were on the way to its accomplishment already. Your cousin's coming may make a slight difference for a time, but it will only be temporary. You yourself are liable to spoil everything."

"I?" Beatrice looked her surprise.

"Yes; you will see as I talk. Now, Beatrice, answer me one question: in your studies you have always been first, have you not?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Never mind about that. Which did you enjoy most: gaining a high mark without any compet.i.tion, or getting one when others were striving for it too?"

"I liked best when I had to work hard to get ahead of others."

"I thought so. Look at this from the same standpoint. Gain your father's love in spite of your cousin's beauty, and his admiration for her. It will be a greater triumph than to gain it when she is not with you."

"Yes; it would," acknowledged Bee, "but--"

"Your first mistake, my dear, for you are a little to blame for the state of things," went on the lady, "was on that first night. You should have laughed at the blunder as of no consequence. I can see how such a course would be impossible to one of your temperament, for you are very intense, and the thing seemed a little short of tragic to you. That is past. Think no more of it. Your second mistake was in trying to make yourself like your cousin. That was a confession of weakness."

"It was as the animals do to protect themselves from enemies," explained Bee. "It is called protective mimicry."

"I don't know what it is called, child. Whatever it is, it is done only by those animals that are incapable of caring for themselves. Now, my dear, why don't you throw yourself into your father's arms, and tell him all your troubles, just as you have me?"

"I wouldn't dare," said Bee in such a tone of reverence that the lady broke into a musical peal of laughter. "You would understand if you knew him, Mrs. Medulla. There is no one quite like him. He is so learned, so reserved, so--"

"Tut, tut! He may be all that, but still he is a man. He may be just waiting for some token of love and affection from you. Remember, Beatrice, you know more of him than he does of you. You have been where you could talk with your aunt and uncle about him, while he knows you only by your letters. As you show yourself to him now, so he must judge of you."

"I see," mused Bee thoughtfully.

"We are through with your mistakes, Beatrice. Did you know that you have some claims to beauty yourself?"

"What?" gasped Bee, so amazed that Mrs. Medulla laughed again.

"Am I telling secrets?" she asked.

"But, but I am not fair. My hair is dark, and my eyes are almost black."

"There are more kinds of beauty than one, Beatrice. Yours is the kind that will increase with years. The Ugly Duckling sort which develops into a beautiful Swan."

"Is it true?" asked the girl breathlessly. "No one ever told me that before. Aunt Annie used to say that my only claim to beauty lay in the expressiveness of my face."