"Go on with all the wedding preparations, and expect me home this evening at six o'clock."
His letter to Beatrice was much longer.
"The time to reproach you, my dear ward, is past," began the Rector. "And you must promise never in the future to reproach me. You are an impulsive girl, and I may have done wrong to yield to your entreaties. Your father's face, has, however, over and over flashed before my mental vision, and the look in his eyes has comforted me. In one sense you are a fool, Beatrice; in another, you are thrice blessed. Forgive this little preamble. I have arranged matters as you wish. I shall be home this evening. Come to me in my study at nine o'clock to-night, my dear ward, and act in the meantime exactly as your true, brave heart suggests."
Beatrice read this letter in her own room. She was quite mortal enough to shed some tears over it, but when she sat opposite to her mother at breakfast, her face was quite as jubilant as any young bride's might be, who was so soon to leave home.
Mrs. Meadowsweet looked at her girl with great pride.
"You feature your father wonderfully, Bee," she said. "It isn't only the Grecian nose, and the well-cut lips, and the full, straight kind of glance in your eyes, but it's more. It's my belief that your soul features Meadowsweet; he was ever and always the best of men. Crotchety from uprightness he was, but upright was no word for him."
"Well, mother, I should like to resemble my father in that particular."
"Yes, my love, yes. Meadowsweet was always heights above me, and so are you also, for that matter."
"That is not true, mother, you must not say it. It pains me."
Beatrice looked distressed. She went over to her old parent and kissed her. Then she hastily left the room.