"My daughter, are you still harboring resentment against your cousin on account of my mistake? That would be unworthy of you."

"Don't," cried Bee, brokenly. "Don't, father!"

There was surprise and grave displeasure in Doctor Raymond's face. That he was more than pained was evident. His daughter had never seemed so womanly as she had that day, and now--he was perplexed. The man was more acquainted with the ways of insects than he was with girls, and had Bee been a b.u.t.terfly rather than a most miserable girl he would have known just what to do. As it was he stood in what seemed to Beatrice cold disapproval.

"He wants her to come," she thought with a pang of bitterness. "And I was so happy only a moment ago. Oh, if I could only have him to myself a little longer, I wouldn't care. I know that I could win him to like me best if I only had a little longer. She will spoil everything." She gave a little sob.

Dr. Raymond gave an impatient movement.

"Beatrice," he said, "I confess that I do not see why this should cause you so much grief. It distresses me very much. You should remember that you shared your cousin's home for many years. It is ungracious to hesitate for a moment."

"They were well paid for their care of me," flashed Beatrice with pa.s.sionate anger. "And they never allowed me to come between them and Adele. Aunt Annie said that it was natural and right that Adele should be first in her own home, and I agreed with her. I gave up in everything to her when I was there. Now, I want to be first in my home. It is not right for her to come here when I haven't had you for so long. Adele only cares to come because you admire her. It isn't at all because she cares for me. And she ought not to leave her father! Oh! it isn't--it isn't--" She burst into tears, unable to finish.

There followed a long silence eloquent with the grief of the daughter, and the unspoken censure of the father. Beatrice felt his disapproval, and she could not bear it. At length, feeling that even Adele's presence could be borne better than his displeasure, she lifted her tear-stained face, and said in a trembling voice:

"Bring her when you wish, father, but, but--" She could say no more.

"That is my own daughter," he exclaimed approvingly. "That was a real victory over unworthy feelings, Beatrice. And there is no cause for any jealousy toward your cousin. Remember that, and conquer whatever of ill feeling toward her may lurk in your breast."

"Yes, father," said Bee, trying not to sob.

"I can not bear it," she told herself as she went finally to her room.

"He wants her to come. He loves her best after all. And I meant to be so good, so good! But it's no use. No use!"

And so what had been a happy day closed with unpleasantness and she went to bed feeling that all her good times with her father were ended.

Chapter XIV

A Little Sermon

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

--_Keats._

"I shall go to Henry's today, Beatrice," Doctor Raymond informed his daughter the next morning. "Adele will return with me."

"Very well, father," acquiesced Beatrice apathetically. She was pale, with deep circles under her eyes, and looked as though she had not slept.

"I am afraid that you worked too hard on that dinner," commented the naturalist with solicitude. "Do you not feel well?"

"I am quite well, thank you, father," returned the girl gravely.

"I shall be glad when your cousin comes," remarked he. "I fear that I have kept you too close to study this summer."

"No, no," denied Bee. "I am just tired, that is all."

What difference did it make to him whether she had worked too hard or not, she asked herself with all the injustice of girlhood. Finding her loath to converse her father relapsed into silence, and the breakfast ended drearily.

Then he left, and Bee sat down on the verandah steps to face the situation. It was over. All the delightful companionship, the long walks, the cataloguing,--everything. She dropped her head into her hands, and sobbed.

"Beatrice Raymond," said the voice of Percival, "what in the world is the matter? I have called twice and you did not answer."

"I didn't hear you." Bee raised her head, and looked at him dully.

"Are you mad at me?" he queried.

"No."

"You didn't think that I would ever come over to see you again, did you?" asked the Prodigy seating himself beside her with easy grace.

"I did not think anything about it," replied the girl shortly.

"You are cross," exclaimed Percival in aggrieved tones. "If you are not mad, I don't see why you should be cross to me. Aren't you mad?"

"No, no," returned Bee impatiently. "See here, Percival! I am in trouble. Won't you go away, and not bother me?"

The boy rose slowly.

"Of course, if I bother you, I'll go," he said with dignity. "If you are in trouble you ought not to be left alone. Thinking is bad, my mother says. Where is your father?"

"He has gone away," replied Bee briefly. "He won't be back until tonight."

"Then I am not going," declared Percival firmly. "That is, not unless you will go with me. Why can't you come over and stay with mamma and me, Beatrice?"

"I don't want to," said Bee miserably. "I just want to be left alone."

"That is what I'm not going to do," declared the boy obstinately. "You ought not to be, you know. I'll tell you what: come over, and let me play to you. That will drive all your troubles away."

"If I go over for a little while to listen to you, will you let me come home alone? I don't wish to be rude, Percival, but I am very unhappy."

"If you will come over for a time you may do anything you please," said the lad earnestly. "I am sorry if I seem to bother, but when I am troubled music puts everything all right. It's the same with mamma, and with old Heinrich, and with lots of people. I just believe that it will help you too, or I should not insist. Now, come, b.u.t.terfly."

"You are very nice to me, Percival," said Beatrice, touched. "Nicer than you ought to be, because I have not been good to you this morning. But I just can't be pleasant to any one."

"I know." The boy nodded his head sagaciously. "I feel that way too, sometimes."

"And, Percival, you must not call me b.u.t.terfly. b.u.t.terflies are pretty and only good-looking people should be called so. I have a cousin who is very beautiful. We always called her that, but they call me Bee."

"And bees make honey, don't they? I like honey, and I like bees. I think I like them better than I do b.u.t.terflies. They have a sting, too, don't they?"

"Yes," answered the girl.

"You have too. That is, you can say some sharp things. I think bee suits you better than the other because you do things. I am going to call you Beefly. b.u.t.terflies never do anything, do they?"

"They don't need to do anything," sighed Bee. "It's only homely insects that need to work."