Bee drew near her father and slipped her hand into his. Together they bent over the rail and waved their handkerchiefs at the little group on the wharf. Adele was sobbing convulsively.
"I did not think she would mind so much," said Bee. "It is nice to be loved like that, isn't it, father?"
"Yes;" he said, passing his arm about her. "She has just begun to realize your worth. I think the knowledge of how dear you are to us has just come to us all."
"Father," she cried, looking up at him lovingly, "you really like me a great deal, I do believe."
"I should have been very unhappy had I been obliged to leave you, Beatrice. It is not given to many men to have a dear little companion who embodies so much wit and cleverness. I am proud of my little daughter."
Bee was silent through sheer delight. And so they stood. The ship swept through the narrows and into the lower bay. America was getting farther and farther away, but she was too happy to care. The Summer had passed. The cool breezes of Autumn blew refreshingly. Like the ocean the future stretched before them, and they were sailing toward the unknown. But Bee glanced at the tender, earnest face of her father, and felt no fear. Whatever came she was his companion and helper, and she was content.