"It would do no harm to expend more pains upon your toilet, Beatrice. A girl cannot be too careful of her personal appearance. This evening of all others you should desire to look your best."

"I do, auntie; so I will begin to get ready right now," replied Bee, following her cousin out of the room.

It was the Fifteenth of June, and everything was in readiness for Doctor Raymond's homecoming. He had always objected to a tenant in his home, so the dwelling had been left in charge of caretakers. Each year, however, Walnut Grove, as the old vine-clad house was called, had enjoyed a thorough house-cleaning under Mrs. Raymond's supervision; but never before had it undergone such a furious renovation. Paint and floors were scoured; walls swept; beds shaken and sunned, and furniture polished.

The grounds, too, had received attention as the neat appearance of lawn and garden could testify. The last day of waiting left nothing to do to beguile the dragging hours.

Mrs. Raymond settled herself for a quiet time after the departure of the girls, but she was not long left alone. Her calm was shortly broken by the reappearance of her niece.

"I've been just as long as ever I could be," cried Bee, skimming lightly across the room to the lady's side. "I've brushed my hair until the roots are visible, and if there is a b.u.t.ton unfastened anywhere about me it would take a search warrant to find it. Will I do, auntie?"

Her aunt suppressed a smile, and looked at her critically. The girl was looking unusually well. She wore a gown of shimmering white which clung to her lithesome figure in soft folds. A single red rose nestled caressingly in her hair and supplied the touch of color needful.

Excitement lent a flush to her cheek and an added l.u.s.tre to her eye so that she appeared animated and even brilliant.

"You never looked so well in your life, Bee," approved Mrs. Raymond.

"Why, you are almost beautiful."

"As if I could ever be that," laughed Bee, giving her a bearish hug and a resounding kiss. "Although, if anything in the world could transform me into a beauty it would be father's coming. There, Aunt Annie! I am going to leave you in peace. I am going into the garden and walk to the Arbor Vitae hedge. It will take five minutes to walk there, and five to come back. If I do that six times one hour will be gone."

"Oh, youth! Impatient, restless youth!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the lady as the girl danced out of the room.

The sun sank to rest. The gorgeous hued clouds of sunset lost their brilliancy under the approach of gray Twilight, and were folded upon the breast of Evening. Low in the west hung the silvery crescent of the young moon; and near, vieing with it in brightness, shone the soft radiance of the evening star--first wanderer in the train of night. The twilight shadows lengthened. The odorous breeze, scented with honeyed clover and the perfume of roses, grew languid in its sweetness, and presently died away. Great dusky moths drifted silently about the half-closed flowers, and from the hedge sounded the plaintive notes of a whip-poor-will.

"You will not have much longer to wait, Bee," comforted Mrs. Raymond, coming out on the verandah where the girl had taken her stand. "I heard the train quite a while ago, so they will soon be here. They are later than Henry thought they would be. You are not nervous, are you?"

"No; that is, I don't know," answered Bee, her head bent in a listening att.i.tude. "Oh, auntie! What makes the minutes seem so long when one is waiting for something good to happen? They go fast enough at other times."

"It is one of those things that can't be explained, child," answered Mrs. Raymond gravely. "You remember the old proverb: 'A watched pot never boils'? But it won't be much longer. Try to possess your soul in patience for just a short time. He will soon be here now. It grows dark, doesn't it? The dinner will be quite late. Had we not better go inside?"

"You may, auntie, but I want to stay right here so as to get the first glimpse of him."

"I think I will, Bee. The air seems damp, and I am beginning to feel some of your nervousness. Adele is singing in the parlor. I think I'll join her."

"Do," said Bee briefly.

The darkness grew denser, but Bee still lingered on the porch, her form half hidden by the vines. Presently the sound of wheels was heard down the drive, and she started forward eagerly, then paused overcome by a sudden shyness. Mrs. Raymond hastened to the door, and stepped to the girl's side.

"Come," she called as Beatrice shrank behind her.

A carriage came rapidly out of the darkness, and drew up before the entrance. Before it had fairly stopped the door opened, and a man sprang from it. Quickly he ran up the steps just as Adele appeared in the doorway, the broad white light of the hall lamp shining about her yellow hair like a halo, making her face with its beautiful eyes look like a cameo in a golden setting.

"Welcome home, William," began Mrs. Raymond, but her brother-in-law brushed by her with eyes only for the graceful figure beyond.

"My daughter! My dear little daughter!" he cried, clasping the astonished girl in his arms.

"How beautiful you are! You are just as I pictured you."

"Oh!" burst from Bee in such heartbroken accents that Mrs. Raymond was galvanized into action.

"William," she cried, laughing nervously, "you have made a mistake. That is my daughter, Adele. Beatrice, come and welcome your father."

Beatrice came forward slowly. All the joy and sparkle had gone out of her face, and in its misery it looked dull and heavy.

"Why, why," stammered Doctor Raymond, glancing from one girl to the other, his disappointment written plainly upon his countenance. "I thought, I certainly thought--"

"You thought that I was Bee, didn't you?" smiled Adele, gracefully disengaging herself from his embrace. "It was a funny mistake, as we are not a bit alike. Bee is so clever."

"Yes; I dare say." The entomologist was clearly bewildered by the occurrence, and he greeted his own daughter awkwardly in consequence.

Bee received his caress pa.s.sively, feeling with unerring intuition his lack of warmth.

Mechanically she followed the others into the parlor, her anguish each moment becoming more intolerable. She could not but remark how her father's eyes were constantly straying toward Adele who was fairly radiant. Bee had adored her cousin, and had been proud of her beauty; but now, something closely resembling hatred crept into her heart.

Hoping that the cheer and conversation of the table would put matters upon a more genial footing, Mrs. Raymond ushered them in to dinner. The lady, as well as her husband, had been distressed by the incident, and both viewed with anxiety Beatrice's constraint and coldness. The girl was usually the gayest of the gay at table, and so light-hearted that her aunt frequently reproved her for her levity, but now, fearful of losing control of herself, she grew so frigid that there was no thawing her out. The talk was chiefly among the grown people.

"What are your plans, William?" asked Henry Raymond.

"They are uncertain," replied Doctor Raymond. "I shall be here for the summer at least. I have a great number of specimens to mount and to catalogue, beside some work upon my new book. In fact, I have so much on hand that I fear it will be very lonesome for Beatrice. Do you not think, my child,--" with a conciliatory smile in Bee's direction, and blundering into a second error as even the most learned of men, be they lepidopterists or what not, sometimes will,--"do you not think that you would better have your cousin with you for the summer?"

"No;" blurted out Bee, unable to trust herself to utter more than the single word.

"Why, bless my soul!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the scientist, turning an amazed glance upon her. Mrs. Raymond interposed quickly:

"Beatrice is right, William. It has been long since she has seen you, and you will naturally wish to spend as much time with her as possible.

I have already arranged for Adele to go to mother's for the summer. She may come to you in the fall; if Beatrice wishes."

"Perhaps that will be better," acquiesced the traveller quietly. "And now, as we are all here together, it may be the time and place for explanations. I don't know whether one is due me, or to Beatrice; but I do not understand how I received this in place of her picture. Can you explain the mistake, my daughter?"

He drew Adele's photograph from the inside pocket of his coat as he spoke, and handed it to Bee. She gave an exclamation of astonishment as she saw the beautiful, laughing countenance on the cardboard instead of her own. Then she raised her eyes, and gave Adele a long, steady look.

Adele had changed the photographs, and Bee knew that it had been done on purpose. She saw that her cousin was a little frightened, and she wondered what explanation she would make.

Adele was frightened. It had not occurred to her that the matter would take on a serious aspect, and she feared to say that she had made the exchange in fun. So she reached over and took the photograph from Bee with a hand that trembled slightly.

"Why! It's my picture," she cried with a little hysterical giggle. "What a mistake! I remember now they both came home together, and lay on the desk in the library. They must have gotten mixed some way. It would have been easy to change them."

"Why, so it would," agreed her mother with a relieved expression. "I remember they were on the desk together. Bee must have picked up yours, Adele, by mistake."

And Adele said not a word about its being her fault. She had no fear of Bee's telling either. Her cousin had a boy's sense of honor about such things, and unless she herself owned up, the matter would rest between them. So she made no further comment on the subject, and the older people, deeming the affair of no great importance since it was known that a mistake had been made, resumed conversation.

Bee sat silent, her heart swelling almost to bursting. The words of her father's letter rang in her brain: "It is partly your letters that have wrought this change ... and partly your picture, which completed what the letters had begun. I cannot resist its winsomeness."

It was Adele's picture which had brought him home. He would not have come had she sent her own. He had thought the beautiful girl was his daughter, and he was disappointed because she was not. He wanted Adele.

Adele!

The dinner, on the whole not a successful meal, was over at last. The older people were deep in conversation; the traveller narrating his experiences, the others questioning and exclaiming. Bee had pictured just such a scene, but always in fancy she sat close to her father's side with her hand in his, or else his arm was thrown caressingly around her. The reality was so different that it was more than she could bear.

Seeing that she was un.o.bserved, she rose and stole quietly out of the house.

The light breeze, breathing of the sweetness of honeysuckles and roses, touched the tops of the walnut trees and dipped down to stir the cool gra.s.s beneath them. Into the darkness of the grove went the unhappy girl. When she had reached a place where she was out of sight and sound of the house she threw herself down, and gave way to a pa.s.sion of tears.