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?"