"That ends your work, Beatrice," he said. "The cataloguing is ended. Now go for a walk while I box up the last case of specimens. No; you can not help me in that. You have already been of great a.s.sistance. I do not know how I should have gotten along without you."

Well pleased by his words Beatrice left the house, and sauntered down the road, past the place formerly occupied by the Medullas, and on toward her favorite grove, sometimes pausing to pluck an early aster, or spray of golden rod blooming along the dusty roadside. A stillness that no bird note disturbed, for the birds that had not already departed were cl.u.s.tered about those places where dripping springs were to be found, prevailed throughout the cool recesses of the grove. The girl flung herself down under an oak tree, idly watching the impatient tapping of a squirrel in the branches above at the still resisting acorns. The monotony of the soulless sunshine became irksome. The spirit of the furred and feathered folk of the woods was stealing into her. Like them she was heartily tired of the summer, and half stifled in the wornout atmosphere of the sleepy silent August day.

"I am glad that tomorrow is the first day of September," she exclaimed, sitting up and speaking aloud. "It is so hot. I want a change!"

At this moment a bright bit of color fluttered through the air and dropped in the gra.s.s by her side.

"It's a b.u.t.terfly," cried Bee. "A poor little b.u.t.terfly that has come to the end of its life."

She bent over the dainty insect and lifted it gently. A cry of delight escaped her lips as she looked at it. The insect moved its wings slightly, disclosing its gorgeous colorings.

"It's father's Teinopalpus Imperialis! It's the b.u.t.terfly that I lost!"

she exclaimed joyfully. "It's father's rare specimen!"

She sprang up and ran to the house as fast as she could.

"Father, father," she called excitedly, bursting into the study. "See! I have found your b.u.t.terfly!"

"My b.u.t.terfly, Beatrice?" Doctor Raymond glanced up from a letter he was reading. His daughter was too intent upon the finding of the insect to note that his face was very grave. "What do you mean?"

"The one I lost," cried Bee holding the creature toward him. "See the spots on the wings, and these markings on the secondaries! It is the very one, isn't it?"

"It certainly looks like it." The naturalist took the insect and examined it critically. "Where did you find it?"

"I was in the grove," explained Bee. "All at once this b.u.t.terfly fluttered down by my side. I saw that it was yours so I brought it home at once."

"Look!" he said. "The b.u.t.terfly is not dead, though I question if it lives long. The life of the longest lived is but short at best. Get some honey and water, and let us see if we can revive it."

Bee brought the honey and water and watched closely as her father took a long, slender needle and carefully unwound the proboscis of the insect inserting it in the honey mixture. At first the little creature scarcely knew what to make of the proceeding, but soon it began to suck the fluid eagerly. Then it rose from his hand and flew about the room, returning almost immediately to the saucer of sweets.

"Will it live?" asked Bee much interested.

"I hardly think so. I have known of a few cases where their lives were prolonged beyond the natural limit by artificial means, but it does not happen often. I fear this one is too far gone. If not, you will have a b.u.t.terfly pet."

But alas! even as he spoke the b.u.t.terfly gave a convulsive quiver and lay still.

"It's gone," said the naturalist, lifting it carefully.

"You can keep it for your collection, can't you, father?"

"Yes; I will keep it, Beatrice. Of course I can not say positively that it is the very same Teinopalpus Imperialis that I hatched from the egg myself, but I believe that it is the one. For, how should such a choice specimen exist here when it is so rarely found in its native haunts?

Could it be possible--"

He paused, thoughtfully gazing at the dead b.u.t.terfly. He roused himself presently and turned toward her.

"I am glad that you returned as you did, my daughter. Joel brought the mail, and there are matters to be discussed between us."

For the first time Beatrice noticed his grave looks.

"Father," she cried in alarm. "What is it? Something has happened. You are not, you are not--" a sudden dread piercing her heart, "going away?"

There was so much anguish and appeal in her cry that Doctor Raymond held out his arms to her. "My child," he said, drawing her close to him, "I must. You remember that I shortened the term of years I promised the University to spend abroad? It is a matter of honor to fulfill my agreement with them; for, while they would release me if I wished, it would put them to a great deal of trouble to get another man. The chief difficulty lies in the fact that no other could know the ground as I do. Do I make myself clear about this, Beatrice?"

"Yes;" came from Bee's white lips, briefly.

"I thought that you would understand my position. The reason for my going being therefore defined, the question remains as to what disposition is to be made of you? I am not altogether satisfied to let you remain with your uncle's family for many reasons; chief among them being that I believe that your interests are subordinated to Adele's.

That, I presume, is highly natural for them, but scarcely gratifying to me. Therefore, I have thought of placing you in college."

"College?" repeated the girl mechanically, hardly hearing what he was saying. But one thought was in her mind. He was going away! He was going to leave her for two long years! It sounded in her ears like a refrain: two long years!

"College life will appeal to one of your mind. I wish you to become a fine, lovable woman, Beatrice. The problem of molding you into such a character is a vital one to me. A healthful body, a thoughtful mind, a good heart are three things which every girl should have in common with her brothers. These you have, and it is my desire that they shall be so trained that they will merge into gracious womanhood. This much have you taught me, Beatrice: that there is a charm greater than that of beauty.

I would rather have this head with its mottled tresses--" He bent his head and touched her hair with his lips caressingly,--"than all the golden locks in the world."

Bee choked. As always when deeply stirred she could not speak. A numbness clutched at her heart and held her still and cold. A lump in her throat would not down. Presently her father continued:

"Our summer has been full of unfortunate misunderstandings, and, I fear, of much unhappiness for you. Could we begin over, that is, provided I had my present knowledge, I believe that such misunderstandings could be avoided. I have been blind to many things, child."

"And now," burst from Bee, the fullness of her heart finding vent at last in pa.s.sionate, pleading protest, "now just as we have learned to understand each other you are going away. Father, father! I have had you such a little while. Only three short months out of my whole life! Oh, do take me with you! I'll be so good, so good. I'll try so hard to be all that you wish. Do take me, father. I cannot let you go."

"It is my dearest wish, Beatrice," spoke her father huskily. "But I can not."

"Is it that I would be in the way? Or don't you trust me? I would be very careful of your specimens, father. Could I not be of some use to you?"

"You could help me in many ways, Beatrice. Not only in my work but by your loving companionship. It was my intention to take you with me until the past few days. Then matters came up that made it not feasible. I still hoped, but that letter which came a short time since has confirmed the necessity for leaving you."

"Dear father, tell me what the matter is? Why can't you take me? Tell me the reason."

"I had hoped to keep it from you, my child," said Doctor Raymond with some embarra.s.sment. "I have been obliged to dismiss the idea for lack of means. I have never been what you might call a money-getter, Beatrice.

Few scientists are. What money I have had has been invested in such manner as to give us an income sufficient for our needs. Recently those investments failed, and I have now only the salary that the University pays me. The letter informs me that there is nothing left. My salary will pay your expenses at college and leave a residue for my needs very nicely. Dear child, it would not be sufficient for travel. Do you understand matters now, Beatrice?"

"Yes, oh, yes;" uttered Bee brokenly. "I'll try to bear it, father, but--but--"

"That is my brave little daughter," he said in such a tender voice that Bee's tears gushed forth anew. "When next we are together perhaps I may be able to make you happier than I have this summer. Go now, my child; think over the matter. We will talk of it again."

He bent abruptly over some specimens, and Beatrice, sobbing quietly, left the room.

Chapter XXVI

A Great Surprise

"The life we choose Breathes high, and sees a full-arched firmament.

Our deeds shall speak like rock-hewn messages, Teaching great purpose to the distant time."

--_George Eliot._