"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.