"Well?" Bee paused good naturedly.
"Edna was telling us how long your father had been away, and I want to ask you if you think he would know you if he were to meet you unexpectedly?"
"Oh, Sue, that's mean!" came from the girls in shocked tones. "Don't answer her, Bee."
"But I don't ask for meanness," went on Sue apologetically as she saw the look that came into Bee's eyes. "I really want to know."
"Why, of course he would know me," uttered Bee hastily. "I'm his daughter."
"Yes; but—" began the irrepressible Sue, when Edna caught her about the waist and pressed one hand firmly over her mouth.
"Go on, Bee," she cried. "I'll attend to her. You'll have to hurry if you get home in time to finish that letter."
Beatrice turned, and slowly went on her way. Her uncle's house, where she lived, was in the western outskirts of the town more than a mile distant from the school. It behooved her to hasten if she were to finish her letter before tea time, but that question of Sue's had set her to thinking.
On the death of her mother, ten years before, her father, overwhelmed with grief at his loss, had accepted an offer to go abroad to complete a collection of lepidoptera for Union University, leaving her in charge of his brother's family. His letters had been frequent, and so tender and loving that the question of recognition had never occurred to her.
The houses became fewer as Beatrice reached the edge of town where the main street became a turnpike with green fields on either side, and a clear view of the distant hills. It was a beautiful April day. At the opening of the month spring had smiled invitingly; then, as though repenting her forwardness, she had retreated for a time, advancing again with coy hesitancy until today all her windows were open toward summer. In the zenith was a blue so soft and dreamy that it drew the soul as well as the eye toward it. A haze of Tyrian hue purpled the hills that encircled the little town, and mellowed the glory of the sunshine. There were splashes of green in the meadows so delicate as to be almost yellow, and along the brooks the willows played their fast greening boughs against a background of gray wood color. The very earth was odorous and the air was like balm, but Beatrice, usually susceptible to the beauties of Nature, was in too abstracted a mood to be conscious of the loveliness about her.