To the young all things are tragic. To Beatrice it seemed that the end of everything had come. Now she realized that behind her objection to Adele's presence in her home there had lurked the fear that her father's stay would be short.

She shed no more tears, but her dry-eyed grief was more distressing for that very reason. If Doctor Raymond hoped to talk matters over again he reckoned without his host, for Beatrice could not speak of the separation. The scientist was very busy and had little leisure to devote to his daughter, but he noted with concern her lack of interest in everything.

"Beatrice," he said to her one day, "you need some one with you. I am obliged to be away a great deal just now, and it is lonely for you. Your aunt has kindly consented to superintend the preparation of your wardrobe, and it might be wise for you to spend the remaining time there. Either that or else they must come here."

"Let them come here, father. I--I don't want to leave home before I must."

There were no tears in her voice, but something in it caused her father to say, not quite steadily:

"My daughter, be brave. Don't make it hard for me."

Beatrice looked at him quickly.

"Is it hard for you, father?"

"Harder than I would like you to know, child. You know why I must go.

Let us not dwell on the unpleasant part of it. After all, two years are nothing. After the first hurt of the separation is over you will find new interests, and life will once more become rosy. You are going to be brave, aren't you?"

"Yes, father," answered Bee steadily.

"That is my good little daughter. Today I will bring Adele and her mother over, and they will cheer you up. It will benefit Henry also to have the change."

"Very well," answered the girl trying to smile.

She had not seen her cousin since she left her outside old Rachel's cabin, and when evening brought Adele once more to Walnut Grove a dull wonder crept into her heart that her coming was not fraught with pain.

To her surprise there was a great difference in the manner of both her father and her cousin toward each other. Adele no longer made pert sallies at his expense after the manner of a petted child; she seemed rather subdued toward him. Bee did not fully comprehend how dissimilar was their att.i.tude for some days, and then she came slowly to see that while Doctor Raymond was unfailingly courteous toward his niece it was to her he turned, to her wishes that he deferred. It came to her with a sort of shock that it was she herself who was first with him.

"Why! he loves me best. Father loves me best!" she said to herself in surprise. "How has it come?"

To her wonder Adele treated the fact as a matter of course, but as a full realization of the truth came to Bee her unhappiness at his going increased.

"I wish I were going to college," cried Adele one day, fluttering about a number of parcels that had just arrived. "I never saw such a lot of hats and gowns. You will be the best dressed girl there, Bee."

"Will I?" asked Bee indifferently. Pretty frocks were all very well in their place, but they did not relieve the ache in her heart.

"You don't care a thing about them," declared her cousin. "You are such a funny girl! Isn't she, mamma?"

"A little inclined so," answered Mrs. Raymond, who delighted in pretty clothes. "Bee, do take more interest. It is ungrateful not to appreciate what your father is doing for you. Now, Adele cares a great deal more about her appearance than you do about yours, yet I should not get her so many things. Of course William knows that you need more dressing is the reason he is so liberal."

"No, Aunty," returned Bee. "Father is not generous because of that, but because he wishes to make up to me for his absence."

And with the utterance of these words it became clear to her that this was in truth the reason. That he was not quite easy in his mind regarding her, and sought this means to relieve the feeling. A quick gush of tenderness flooded her being.

"I must be brave," she told herself over and over. "It distresses him because I am unhappy. I must be brave."

"Bee," spoke Adele sharply, "what in the world are you mooning about?

Mamma has spoken to you twice."

"I beg your pardon, aunty," said Bee contritely. "I did not hear you. I was thinking."

"You should conquer that habit of inattentiveness," chided her aunt. "I notice that it is growing on you. What has come over you, Bee? I never saw such a change in a girl in all my life!"

"Am I so changed?" asked Bee wistfully.

"Well; you are so thoughtful and quiet. You used to be so merry, you know."

"It's father, aunty," cried the girl, bursting into tears. "I am trying to be brave, but oh, Aunt Annie! my heart is breaking."

The lady drew her to her and kissed her.

"It doesn't do to have so much feeling, child," she said. "There! dry your eyes, and look at this tweed. It will make a handsome traveling gown."

"Yes;" broke in Adele ecstatically, while Bee wiped her eyes, and endeavored to interest herself in the dress. "There are to be gloves, hat and shoes in keeping. The girls would call it swell. And, Bee, we are all going to New York with Uncle William to see him off. Won't it be fine to be in New York City? You better believe that I'm not coming back without seeing some of the sights."

"I think we shall all be willing to do that, Adele," smiled her mother.

So the talk went on. Bee was fitted with wraps, gowns, hats, and other things considered necessary until her head whirled with the mult.i.tudinous furnishings, and all the world seemed to resolve itself into one vast dressmaking shop created solely for her benefit.

"Another, aunty?" she asked wearily one morning as Mrs. Raymond called her into the sewing room for a fitting.

"Yes; this is the very last one, child; and a beauty it is too."

"I do not think that I ever had so many dresses in all my life together," observed the girl. "What am I to do with them all?"

"You will find use for everything when you reach the college, Beatrice,"

smiled the lady. "This one is for evening. There are many social functions, and of course you will take part in them. It is tiresome, I know, to fit all these things but you will be glad later that you have them."

"I may be," answered Bee. "I am not ungrateful, aunty, for all that you are doing, only just now it seems as though there were ever so many more than I will need. And," she added with a troubled look and speaking in a lower tone, "are you sure that father can afford to spend so much on me?"

"You absurd child!" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond with misty eyes. "Of course he can. I think myself that he is doing more than is necessary, but it pleases him, Bee, so accept it for the pleasure it gives him."

"But if he is denying himself," began Bee, but they were interrupted by the entrance of Aunt f.a.n.n.y.

"Dose satanic gen'mun dat wuz heah ter dinnah dat time dey is all downstairs, an' dey say dey wants ter see Miss Bee," she announced.

"Isn't it father?" asked Bee in astonishment. "He is in the library, Aunt f.a.n.n.y. You mean him, don't you?"

"No'm; I doesn't. Dey said Miss Beatrice Raymond," answered the negress pompously. "Jest like dat: Miss Beatrice Raymond."

"Better run down, Bee," suggested her aunt. "I dare say that they wish to see you again as this may be their last visit before William goes."

So wonderingly Beatrice went down to the library. They were all there.

The four scientists whom she had entertained with the b.u.t.terfly Dinner that now seemed so long ago. They arose at her entrance and greeted her cordially albeit with some embarra.s.sment. Her father, too, appeared moved out of his ordinary composure.

"Miss Raymond," spoke one of the naturalists, "we have sent for you--that is--we have never forgotten that dinner, and as a token of our appreciation--"

"You are all wrong, Davis," broke in another. "It isn't a token at all.

It is her natural right."