She was standing at the west window, apparently looking out at the wintry, red sunset. Although it was afternoon, she still wore a long, flowing, white merino morning dress, and her bright golden brown hair was unwound, hanging loose upon her shoulders. The beams of the setting sun, streaming in full upon her, illumined the outlines of her beautiful head and graceful form. A lovely picture she made as she stood there like some fair spirit.
Ishmael advanced softly towards her, stood behind her.
"Bee; dear, dear Bee!" he said, putting his arms around her.
She turned in a moment, exclaiming:
"Dear Ishmael; dearest brother!" and was caught to his bosom. She dropped her head upon his shoulder, and burst into a flood of tears. She wept long and convulsively, and he held her closely to his heart, and soothed her with loving words. It seemed she did not take in the full purport of those words, for presently she ceased weeping, gently disengaged herself from his embrace, and sat down upon the corner of the sofa, with her elbow resting on his arm, and her head leaning upon her hand. And then, as he looked at her, Ishmael saw for the first time how changed, how sadly changed she was.
Bee's face had always been fair, clear, and delicate, but now it was so white, wan, and shadowy that her sweet blue eyes seemed preternaturally large, bright, and hollow. She began to speak, but with an effort that was very perceptible:
"Dear Ishmael, dearest and ever dearest brother, I did not mean to weep so; it was very foolish; but then you know we girls weep for almost anything, or nothing; so you—"
Her voice sank into silence.
"My darling, why should you weep at all? and why do you call me brother?" whispered Ishmael, sitting down beside her, and drawing her towards him.
But again she gently withdrew herself from him, and looking into his face with her clear eyes and sweet smile, she said: