"We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, not breaths;In feelings, not in figures on a dial.We should count time by heart-throbs. He most livesWho thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best."—Philip James Bailey.
"We live in deeds, not years, in thoughts, not breaths;In feelings, not in figures on a dial.We should count time by heart-throbs. He most livesWho thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best."
—Philip James Bailey.
"I am aware of the fact," was Doctor Raymond's reply. "How did you hear of it, Doctor Black?"
"Why, Raymond, is that you? What in the world brought you here? I tacked up a sign today to keep idiots out. It did not have the desired effect, it seems."
Beatrice felt her face flush at the words, but there was a laugh in her father's voice as he responded:
"I have a daughter in there, doctor, who may take exception to that remark."
"Your daughter? What is she doing there? Didn't you know any better than to let her go to such a place? I have been busy all day vaccinating people, and taking means to prevent the disease from spreading. It is just such things that undo a physician's precautions. Why did you permit it?"
"I was not consulted in the matter," was the response. "My daughter came down with food for Rachel, and finding her alone remained to be of service."
"Good gracious, what could she do? Tillie left as soon as she found what was the matter. Nobody knows where the old woman contracted the disease. I brought Hannah here with me to nurse her. She has had it and therefore is not afraid of it. I must say, though, that I hadn't bargained for this complication. Has Beatrice had it?"
"I think not, doctor."
"Then she must be gotten out of there. Come, Hannah! We will go in now."
"I fear that you will find some difficulty in doing so, doctor. Beatrice has locked the door to keep me out."
"Thunderation!" exclaimed the doctor. "I can't be delayed by any such nonsense. Open this door," he commanded pounding upon it with his fists.
The door rattled violently under his vigorous shaking. Bee knew that she must open it, but she resolved to win the doctor to her side if possible.
"Doctor Black," she called.
"Well? Are you going to keep me out here all night, young lady?" he demanded bluntly. "I've had a busy day, and I want to get home. Quit your fooling, and unlock this door."
"Yes, doctor; but do you think it wise for father to come in? Promise to keep him out and I'll open it. Otherwise,—" The pause was so significant that the physician chuckled.
"He shan't come in, child. If he does I'll vaccinate him in four places," he declared energetically. "You hear, Raymond?"
"I hear, doctor, and accept the condition. If I did not that 'otherwise' means that Beatrice will fight it out on the stand she has taken if it takes all night."
"Your father will stay out, Miss Beatrice. Now open the door."
Beatrice gladly obeyed. The physician entered briskly, followed by a tall colored woman.
"Well, Miss Bee," he said genially with a searching glance at her pale face, "you've had rather a siege of it, haven't you? How long have you been here?"
"All this afternoon," answered Bee, conscious all at once of being very tired. She sat down suddenly, and asked weakly: "What are you going to do?"
"To vaccinate you, my young lady," was the response. "Hoity Toity!" as the girl turned pale. "What's this? Why, you're not afraid, are you? Tut, tut! Don't you know that it takes more courage to stay for hours with a woman with the small pox that to endure a little scratch?"
"I am not afraid," faltered Bee who was trembling excessively.
"I see." The physician patted her hand reassuringly. "Why did you stay here, child? There was nothing you could do for Rachel."
"Nothing but to give her a drink. She was so thirsty."
"You don't mean that you raised her head and gave her water, do you?" exclaimed he in surprise.
"Why, of course. How else could she drink?" asked Bee. "She couldn't raise it herself."
"Weren't you a bit afraid?" Doctor Black had rolled up her sleeve, and was selecting a vaccine point carefully.
"At first I was; then I was sorry for her. I might look just as bad if I should have it, you know."
"You are not going to have it, my dear," he said brusquely. "Now give me that arm. All ready. Just a scratch, and it is over. Well, bless my soul! Raymond!"
For Beatrice had quietly fainted away. When consciousness returned to her the sweet freshness of the summer night was about her; the soft darkness enveloped her like a mantle, and she was being borne along carefully in someone's arms. For a time she lay, content to be still in the encircling arms, but as she became more herself wonder crept into her heart, and she put up her hand and touched the face above her.
"Father?" she whispered.
"Yes, my daughter."
"How came I here, and why do you carry me?"
"I am taking you home, Beatrice. You fainted. Do you not remember?"
"Oh, yes." The girl was silent for a moment, and then she asked, "did you go in the cabin?"
"I did, Beatrice. I went after you, but do not be alarmed. Dr. Black made me submit to vaccination. I have been exposed many times, and have no fear of the disease."
"You are sure, father?"
"Yes, my daughter."
Once more there was silence, but presently the girl's attention was attracted by his labored breathing.
"You must not carry me. I am too heavy," she cried slipping from his arms to the ground.
"Are you strong enough to walk, child? It is only the heat that makes me pant; not your weight."
"I am quite strong enough," answered Bee, but he still kept his arm about her, and so they proceeded homeward. Once more Beatrice broke the stillness, the darkness giving her courage.
"You were good to come to me tonight, father. I haven't deserved it. Oh! you don't know how bad I have felt about losing that butterfly."
"Never mind about it, Beatrice. I think we each have something to forgive the other. I have my confession to make also. I have judged you wrongly in many ways. There are many things that are becoming plain to me. I can only excuse myself by saying that I was more ignorant of the nature of a girl than even I knew. Can you forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive, father," cried Bee quickly, not quite comprehending his meaning but grasping the fact that they were to be friends.
"You are generous, Beatrice. But here we are at home. Go to your room, change your clothes and bring them to me as I wish to burn them. We are going to use every precaution against the spread of the disease, and while I am vaccinating the servants, you must go directly to bed. The afternoon has been a severe tax upon you."
"I am not a bit tired now," said Bee, who was happier than she had been for a long time.
"You do not realize the strain that you have been under, my daughter."
"Adele!" exclaimed Bee coming to a standstill. "Ought we to go in, father?"
"Adele is not here," answered he tersely. "She left for home as I went after you."
"I am glad of it," sighed Bee with relief. "Then there won't be the least doubt about her safety. Aren't you glad, too, father?"
"Yes;" replied William Raymond shortly, and there was that in his voice which kept the girl from saying anything more. It was long before she knew of the conversation between her father and her cousin.
"Good-night, my daughter," said Doctor Raymond with unwonted emotion, drawing her to him as she brought him the clothing as he desired, and prepared to withdraw to her own room. "I wonder if you realize what you have done today?"
"Yes;" answered Bee, looking up quickly, but her alarm subdued as she saw the light in his eyes. "I have done my level best to give every one in the house small pox; but, father, I'll—"
"There, child! go to bed and forget all about it. You are a noble little girl." Bending forward he kissed her tenderly.
Wondering and happy the girl retired, almost incredulous of the joy that had come to her.
"Butterfly-haunted, the great purple astersThrong, gold-hearted, the edge of the road;Low to the grass the green boughs of the orchardHeavily droop with their ruddy-hued load."—Marian Warner Wildman.
"Butterfly-haunted, the great purple astersThrong, gold-hearted, the edge of the road;Low to the grass the green boughs of the orchardHeavily droop with their ruddy-hued load."
—Marian Warner Wildman.
Every precaution was used to prevent the small pox from obtaining a foothold in Walnut Grove, and so efficacious were the measures adopted by Doctor Raymond and the physician, Doctor Black, that the household escaped unscathed. Old Rachel died; and, as hers proved to be the sole case in the community, it could only be conjectured how she had taken the disease.
The solicitude manifested by the scientist for his daughter at this period established very tender relations between them. After the pangs and heart burnings of the summer it seemed like paradise to Bee. As it became apparent that the small pox was not to attack his household Doctor Raymond became once more absorbed in his labors, and remained such long hours in his study that Beatrice could not but wonder at it.
She was pondering the matter one morning as she went to the study door with her usual nosegay of flowers. She had not yet received permission to re-enter the room, and had been puzzled about getting the blossoms to him, but had solved the question by placing a small stand by the door, and setting the matutinal offering upon it. Upon this particular morning as she stood arranging the bouquet more to her liking the door opened, and her father appeared on the threshold.
"Bring in the flowers yourself, Beatrice," he said.
"May I?" cried Bee flushing rosy red with pleasure. "Am I really to go in at last, father?"
"Yes, my daughter. Your place is waiting for you."
Gladly, yet almost timidly, Bee entered the study. It seemed a long, long time since she had been in it, yet in reality it was but a few weeks. With eyes that misted she glanced lovingly at the familiar objects: the books, the manuscripts, her father's chair, and lastly at her own place at the table. Before it lay her pencil and note book.
"It has been waiting for you, Beatrice," said
Doctor Raymond with a smile noting her glance. "I have missed my little helper."
"Have you, father?" she asked shyly.
"Very much, my child. You kept yourself constantly in my mind by your flowers. I liked the attention. Your mother used to do that too. You are like her in many ways."
"Rachel told me that she did," said Bee. "That is the reason I did it. That and because I liked to. Am I really to help you again, father?"
"Yes; although there is not much more to do. We are nearly at the end of the cataloguing. The larvæ have all entered the pupa state, and—when the last of them come out, which will be in a few days, we have only to classify and catalogue them which will end the work. I am boxing the collection ready for shipping to the University. Let us go see the new butterflies, Beatrice, before we begin work. I have not been in the laboratory this morning."
Bee turned at once toward the laboratory, but as she reached the door she paused hesitatingly, a remembrance of the last time when she had lost the rare specimen clouding her pleasure.
"You have learned your lesson, Beatrice," spoke her father gently. "I feel sure that never again will you be guilty of carelessness. Let us think no more about it." He opened the door as he spoke, and they went in.
The caterpillars had disappeared. A few chrysalids depended from some twigs, and a number of butterflies, like flowers reft from their stems, were flickering and pursuing each other in the sunshine which streamed through the windows. They settled, and Bee stole softly toward them and gently shook the thistles upon which they rested. The delicate creatures rose once more. Round and round they flew like great yellow and bronze and purple flowers, then softly, quietly settled again.
"How beautiful they are!" exclaimed Bee. "Is there another insect so pretty, I wonder?"
"Not to me," he replied. "Perhaps it is because of our interest in them that they appear so to us."
So it came about that Beatrice became her father's helper once more. Her studies were resumed, and the old delightful intimacy that had prevailed before the coming of Adele was renewed with a completer understanding of each other on the part of both father and daughter. The cataloguing progressed with rapidity. There came a day when Doctor Raymond laid down his manuscript with something approaching a sigh.
"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 assistance. 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 clustered 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 grass by her side.
"It's a butterfly," cried Bee. "A poor little butterfly 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 butterfly 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 butterfly!"
"My butterfly, 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 butterfly fluttered down by my side. I saw that it was yours so I brought it home at once."
"Look!" he said. "The butterfly 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 butterfly pet."
But alas! even as he spoke the butterfly 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 butterfly. 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 passionate, 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 embarrassment. "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.
"The life we chooseBreathes high, and sees a full-arched firmament.Our deeds shall speak like rock-hewn messages,Teaching great purpose to the distant time."—George Eliot.
"The life we chooseBreathes high, and sees a full-arched firmament.Our deeds shall speak like rock-hewn messages,Teaching great purpose to the distant time."
—George Eliot.
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 attitude 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 multitudinous 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 Fanny.
"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 Fanny. 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 Butterfly Dinner that now seemed so long ago. They arose at her entrance and greeted her cordially albeit with some embarrassment. 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."
"You see," exclaimed the shy man whom Bee remembered so well, "that we were astonished when we learned how you had helped to catalogue the specimens which your father brought back, and we realize how much help you can be to him; so we think—"
"In short," announced the first speaker, "we wish you to accompany your father as his secretary; all expenses to be borne by the University. Will you accept?"
"I—What do you mean?" gasped Bee, clasping her hands and breathing quickly.
"Just what we say, Miss Beatrice. You have done a good work this summer, and we believe that with your leaning toward science it would be of great benefit to you and to ourselves also to send you with Doctor Raymond to help him in his work. The faculty decided upon this move unknown to your father, and have sent us as a committee to ask your acceptance."
"My acceptance?" came from Bee in a sob as she turned blindly toward her father. "Oh, father, father! you tell them."
"Gentlemen," said Doctor Raymond unsteadily, "in my daughter's name I thank you. She accepts with pleasure, and will endeavor to discharge the duties entrusted to her with faithfulness. As for myself—" He paused, unable to finish.
"Nonsense, Raymond! you needed some one to look after you. We shall expect the finest collection that is on this continent with her to help you. It is for our benefit that we are doing this. Now let's settle some of the details, if Miss Raymond is able to attend to them."
"Oh, yes;" laughed Bee through her tears. "I can do anything now."
"Like unto ships far off at sea,Outward or homeward bound, are we.Ah! if our souls but poise and swingLike the compass in its brazen ring,Ever level and ever trueTo the toil and task we have to doWe shall sail securely, and safely reachThe Fortunate Isles with their shining beach."—Longfellow.
"Like unto ships far off at sea,Outward or homeward bound, are we.
Ah! if our souls but poise and swingLike the compass in its brazen ring,Ever level and ever trueTo the toil and task we have to doWe shall sail securely, and safely reachThe Fortunate Isles with their shining beach."
—Longfellow.
The crystalline air, sparkling with the salt of the Atlantic, swept up the bay and stirred the waters of the North River into restlessness, causing the great steamer to tug impatiently at her moorings as though anxious to begin the voyage. Upon the promenade deck of the vessel stood Mr. and Mrs. Henry Raymond, Doctor Raymond, and the two cousins, Adele and Beatrice; for the time of departure had come.
It still lacked some time of the hour for sailing, and Adele called excited directions to Bee as they waited, or made hurried little excursions to the other side of the boat to see what was taking place there.
"You must keep my roses until the very last, Bee," she said. "And there is a box of chocolates in the top of your steamer trunk. I put them there myself. Be sure you think of me when you eat them. Don't you want to try your new rug? I don't believe that it will be half warm enough. And, oh, Bee! do write every day, and tell me everything. Everything! Do you hear? I wish I were going."
"Well, you will have a nice time in New York anyway," consoled Bee, who was trying very hard not to be excited. "Doesn't the city look beautiful?"
"It's wonderful!" agreed Adele ecstatically. "Next to going to Egypt I would rather be here than anywhere. How tall the buildings are!"
"Aren't they?" answered Bee with enthusiasm. "They seem just like cliffs with swallows nests in them. The buildings, the crowds, the shops, and now this great steamer, and all the other vessels seem marvelous to me. Just look what a picture it makes, Adele."
Adele leaned over the railing of the iron-girted steamer, and looked long and earnestly at the wondrous city lying under the flicker of Liberty's torch.
The rugged sky line along the western shore of the city was indeed picturesque under the afternoon sun. The sky was of deepest blue with not a cloud to mar its brilliancy. The silver and gray waters of the bay were dotted with crafts of every description. Saucy tugs darted hither and thither watching for opportunities to offer their services to some great liner to put out from its dock; ferry boats plied unceasingly between the New York and the Jersey shores; excursion steamers crowded with pleasure seekers passed and repassed until one would suppose the entire population of the city was on merrymaking bent. Sail boats, and great steamers like their own filled the docks, or dotted the waters.
All West Street was crowded with people come to see the departure of the liners. Across the broad plaza of the street came hansom cabs, automobiles, coaches, and vehicles bristling with trunks and other baggage; fruiterers' wagons scraped wheels with florists' vehicles, and venders of every sort with their wares filled the spaces between in search of possible purchasers.
Inside the pier the cabs threaded their way through freight piled mountains high to canvas covered gangways leading to the first saloon. The promenade deck was crowded with those who were to sail, and those who had come to see them off. Some were walking up and down the deck excitedly, others were standing about in groups. It was a busy, exciting scene. One so new to the girls that they found the pain of parting swallowed up in the excitement of the event. The older people, too, were strangely silent, and seemed influenced by the bustle about them.
"You will come back so learned there will be no living with you," declared Adele presently, turning her back upon the confusion of the wharf, and with a half envious note in her voice. "And a beauty, too, I expect. You are almost that now, Bee, with your eyes shining so, and that uplifted look on your face."
Bee gazed at her thoughtfully.
"Do you know, Adele," she said at length, "that I don't believe that I shall ever want to be a beauty again. It is all true, just as everybody told me; it doesn't matter in the least about looks, after all. When I was thinking about that and nothing else, everything went wrong. But when I thought about other people and giving them pleasure they tried to do the same by me. Now that Butterfly Dinner: I didn't think of anything in the world but giving those scientists a nice dinner, and a little fun. Just see what it did for me! They have made me father's secretary. Oh, I am going to try to be so good and so sweet that I will deserve all this honor that has come to me!"
"And, and old Rachel's sickness when you helped her," supplemented Adele, a slight flush stealing over her face at the recollection. "If you hadn't gone in there to carry that basket your father would not have wished you to go with him. Maybe, maybe, I will try to be less selfish too, Bee. I haven't always been as nice to you as I ought to have been."
"Don't say a word about it," exclaimed Bee bending forward to kiss her. "Everything has all turned out for the best. You have been just lovely about my going, and helping, and all. If it were not for being with father I should be very unhappy over leaving you; but so long as I am with him I can't help but feel happy."
"What are our Bee and Butterfly conversing so earnestly about?" asked Mrs. Raymond suddenly. "Adele, do you know that you must begin to say good-bye to your cousin? By the time you girls have finished the whistle will have blown. You know how long it takes you."
Adele looked up with eyes that swam with tears.
"And it will be two years," she murmured, giving Bee a big hug. "I do hope that you will have a good time, Bee. If you see a pretty fan you might send it to me. I just love those Egyptian things, and it will be nice to show the girls. To think of your going so far! Be sure to write me long letters. I don't believe that there will be another girl in school who will have a correspondent in foreign parts. It is nice in some ways, but I shall miss you."
"I'll send you just as many pretty things as I can," promised Bee. "I'll never see anything that is real pretty that I won't think of you. You must write long letters too, Adele, and tell me all about the girls, and the school, and everything that happens. Oh, there is the warning!"
Adele clung to her for a moment, then as her father and mother hastily exchanged good-byes with Bee she flung her arms about her uncle.
"You must be awfully good to Bee," she sobbed. "And bring her home safe. Oh, I do wish you were not going!"
Doctor Raymond kissed her gently without replying, and the three left the boat.
The big vessel stirred sluggishly, and then with a hip! hip! hurrah! from the sailors swung out from the pier, backed into midstream and headed for the bay and the ocean.
Bee drew near her father and slipped her hand into his. Together they bent over the rail and waved their handkerchiefs at the little group on the wharf. Adele was sobbing convulsively.
"I did not think she would mind so much," said Bee. "It is nice to be loved like that, isn't it, father?"
"Yes;" he said, passing his arm about her. "She has just begun to realize your worth. I think the knowledge of how dear you are to us has just come to us all."
"Father," she cried, looking up at him lovingly, "you really like me a great deal, I do believe."
"I should have been very unhappy had I been obliged to leave you, Beatrice. It is not given to many men to have a dear little companion who embodies so much wit and cleverness. I am proud of my little daughter."
Bee was silent through sheer delight. And so they stood. The ship swept through the narrows and into the lower bay. America was getting farther and farther away, but she was too happy to care. The Summer had passed. The cool breezes of Autumn blew refreshingly. Like the ocean the future stretched before them, and they were sailing toward the unknown. But Bee glanced at the tender, earnest face of her father, and felt no fear. Whatever came she was his companion and helper, and she was content.