"And in that very expressiveness lies the difficulty. When you are bright and happy you are at your best. Sparkle and animation give you a charm that is more than beauty of skin, or regularity of feature. Grief robs you of this; so, if for no other reason, you should strive to put unhappiness from you. Women who have been considered great beauties have not always had perfect features, or flawless complexions; but they held sway by grace of manner, and that indefinable thing called charm. You are of this cla.s.s. I am telling you this, little girl, not to make you vain, but to give you confidence. Do you know why no one has told you this before?"

"No," replied Bee. "Why?"

"Because, while one feels it, there is a sort of carelessness in your dress that detracts from your appearance."

Bee flushed scarlet, and put up her hand quickly to adjust her twisted neck ribbon.

"I do just throw my things on," she murmured.

"A maiden should be exquisitely neat always. Even a scientific man will be influenced by externals. Such a man might not be able to tell what was wrong, but he would be conscious of some disturbing element. If you are careless in your dress your father will unconsciously draw comparisons between you and your cousin. No girl can afford to be dowdy in appearance. She should make herself as neat and tidy as possible, and then think no more of her dress. Just a few more remarks and I will have finished my little sermon, if a talk on beauty may be called such. You will not mind if I say now, that there is much, much truth in the homely saying that you quoted: 'Handsome is that handsome does.' A winsome, lovable personality is worth all the beauty in the world.

"It is a fact that the girl who thinks kind thoughts, and does good deeds is a great deal more attractive than the one who thinks only of herself. The face reflects the mind far more than girls realize, and as a matter of looks alone a girl cannot afford to be other than sweet and loving. Unselfishness, kindness, thoughtfulness, all help to make the plainest face beautiful, and years will not detract from its charm."

She paused a moment, and then added:

"Not that I would decry loveliness of person child. It is a gift of Heaven and should be valued as such, but that alone is not everything.

Cultivate exquisite neatness of person, and above all, be your own bright self, and I feel sure that it will be but a short time until you will be all in all to your father. And, child, when he looks at your cousin, rise above any little hardness that you may feel toward her. He looks at her as he would at some beautiful picture. It is the same sensation, caused by the same appreciation of beauty. Do you do likewise, and admire her with him. He will admit your good taste, and end by admiring you. Put on your best dress for tonight, and make him as proud of you as you did yesterday. You can do it."

"I _will_ do it," said Bee with determination. "I have been hateful about the dinner. I have not ordered anything for tonight. Mrs. Medulla, you are the sweetest woman that I have ever known."

"Don't be too grateful, Beatrice. Wait and see how things turn out. I know that you will succeed. Come tell me about it tomorrow."

"I will." Beatrice tripped lightly away; no longer troubled and unhappy, but full of the buoyancy of hope.

Chapter XV

The Arrival of Adele

"If any loss thou hast to rue, Act as though thou wert born anew; Inquire the meaning of each day, What each day means, itself will say; Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied, And to G.o.d the future confide."

--_Goethe._

There was a look of anxiety on Doctor Raymond's face as he drove up to the house that evening. Adele's countenance, too, clouded as she glanced about for her cousin, but no Bee was to be seen. The scientist a.s.sisted his niece from the carriage, turned the vehicle over to Joel, and started up the steps. All men dread scenes with their women folk, and he was no exception to the rule.

"Tired, Adele?" he asked. "I dare say we will run across Beatrice in the hall."

At this moment Bee came flying out. There was a flower in her hair, and another at her belt. She looked cool and sweet as only a girl can when she is exquisitely neat in every detail.

"I just heard you," she said brightly, giving Adele a kiss. "I was helping Aunt f.a.n.n.y with the table when I heard your voices. How is Uncle Henry?"

"Better, Bee. Is dinner ready? I am so hungry."

"All ready," responded Bee. "Come right in. Leave your hat in the hall, and we will go to the table at once. Are you hungry, too, father?"

"I believe that I am," rejoined Doctor Raymond, whose face had cleared wonderfully during this conversation. "Have you repeated your success of yesterday, Beatrice?"

"Adele is not a Lepidopterist, so I did not serve b.u.t.terflies," laughed Bee. "I am giving her chocolate ice cream, which is her favorite. Do you like it too?"

"Yes, indeed. I have not had any in years. Are you a housekeeper also, Adele?"

"No;" smiled Adele as they sat down to the table. "Mamma and Bee wouldn't let me muss round. To tell the truth, I don't care much about such things. My tastes are not all domestic. Bee was always crazy on the subject. At least when she could spare time from her b.u.t.terflies."

"Yet she does not strike me as being particularly on that order,"

remarked the scientist musingly. "How came you to take it up, Beatrice?"

"Why, you wrote Aunt Annie that you wished me to," answered Bee as though that were sufficient reason.

"I believe that Bee would learn Hottentot if she thought it would please you, Uncle William," added Adele graciously. She was well pleased that Bee had welcomed her so cordially. "Now, papa is a lawyer, but I don't know a thing about law. I couldn't tell an appeal from a--from a--What do I want to say, Bee?"

"From a writ of habeas corpus," suggested Bee.

"Have you studied law also, Beatrice?" queried her father, glancing from the beautiful face of his niece to the animated one of his daughter.

"No, father. I have heard Uncle Henry talking about his cases, and picked up a few terms. I don't care for law as I do for science."

"What have you been doing to your hair, Bee?" broke in Adele, suddenly.

"I knew there was something odd about you, but I couldn't tell what it was until this minute."

Bee's face flushed, but she answered good-naturedly:

"I struck for gold, Adele, but it didn't pan out the pure article."

"I didn't know that you cared about such things," observed Adele with an involuntary touch to her own golden locks. "You always seemed superior to such things. It would not look so bad if you would keep it touched up. It's being so dark at the roots and yellow the rest of the way is what makes it look queer. Why don't you have it bleached again?"

"Because it's silly," answered Beatrice tersely. "I was foolish to do it in the first place, and now I shall wear it just as it is until it is long enough to cut off all that horrid bleached part. It is a good punishment for me."

"Several of the girls do it, but it does seem strange for you to do such a thing. Aren't you most finished? I am dying to get to that piano. I want to play for Uncle William."

"I am quite through," said Bee with a quick glance in her father's direction, "and so is father. We will go into the parlor now."

With stately, old-fashioned courtesy Doctor Raymond rose and opened the door for them. Engrossed in his own meditations the scientist had not paid much attention to the chatter of the girls. Had it been otherwise he might have absorbed a few facts concerning the species girl that would have enlightened his understanding considerably.

"I am dreadfully out of practice," commented Adele, seating herself at the instrument, and letting her hands flutter over the keys dreamily.

"Since papa has been so ill I have not touched the piano. What do you like, Uncle William?"

"Anything, child," replied Doctor Raymond, seating himself in a large arm chair and preparing to be comfortable. "I am fond of music of all kinds. So let it be 'grave or gay, lively or severe,' it will please me.

Beatrice has not favored me with any music yet."

"I don't play," said Beatrice quietly. "You should hear Percival on the violin, father. He is wonderful!"

"And who is Percival, Beatrice?"

"He is the son of our new neighbor, Mrs. Medulla," Bee informed him. "He lives with his mother in the old Brawley place. He is an infant prodigy."

"I don't care much for such precocity," observed the doctor dryly. "It is usually exploited by long-legged chaps who seek to prolong the illusion of the infantile period by knickerbockers and curls. I am not speaking of your friend, Beatrice, but of the brood in general."