"Am I so changed?" asked Bee wistfully.
"Well; you are so thoughtful and quiet. You used to be so merry, you know."
"It's father, aunty," cried the girl, bursting into tears. "I am trying to be brave, but oh, Aunt Annie! my heart is breaking."
The lady drew her to her and kissed her.
"It doesn't do to have so much feeling, child," she said. "There! dry your eyes, and look at this tweed. It will make a handsome traveling gown."
"Yes;" broke in Adele ecstatically, while Bee wiped her eyes, and endeavored to interest herself in the dress. "There are to be gloves, hat and shoes in keeping. The girls would call it swell. And, Bee, we are all going to New York with Uncle William to see him off. Won't it be fine to be in New York City? You better believe that I'm not coming back without seeing some of the sights."
"I think we shall all be willing to do that, Adele," smiled her mother.
So the talk went on. Bee was fitted with wraps, gowns, hats, and other things considered necessary until her head whirled with the multitudinous furnishings, and all the world seemed to resolve itself into one vast dressmaking shop created solely for her benefit.
"Another, aunty?" she asked wearily one morning as Mrs. Raymond called her into the sewing room for a fitting.
"Yes; this is the very last one, child; and a beauty it is too."