"I'll thank you to explain yourself, Martha Butler," she said. "Whose character is drowned?"
"No one's," said Mrs. Butler. "Or at least, no one who belongs to us."
Here she waved one of her arms in theatrical style.
"I have fought for that girl," she said, "as my sister Maria can bear testimony, and my friend Mrs. Morris can vouch—-I have fought for her, and I may truly say I have brought her through a sea of slander—yes, through a sea of slander—victorious. Now, who's that? Who's coming to interrupt us?"
"It's only me, Mrs. Butler," said Beatrice. She came quietly into the room. Her face was white, but its expression was serene, and almost happy.
"It's you, Bee, at last," said her mother.
She went straight up to the girl, and taking one of her hands raised it to her lips.
"You have come, Bee," she said in a purring cone of delight and content. "My girl has come at last, neighbors, and now I'll wish you, every one, a very good-night. I'm obliged for all sympathy, and if I don't understand these new-fashioned ways about weddings with their poor dears, and their poor friends, and drowning of somebody's character, and saving of somebody else's character, it's because I'm old-fashioned, and belong to an ancient school. Good-night, friends. Is that you, Jane?"
Jane appeared, bearing in a cup of cocoa for Beatrice.
"Jane, show these ladies out."