"I am afraid that you worked too hard on that dinner," commented the naturalist with solicitude. "Do you not feel well?"
"I am quite well, thank you, father," returned the girl gravely.
"I shall be glad when your cousin comes," remarked he. "I fear that I have kept you too close to study this summer."
"No, no," denied Bee. "I am just tired, that is all."
What difference did it make to him whether she had worked too hard or not, she asked herself with all the injustice of girlhood. Finding her loath to converse her father relapsed into silence, and the breakfast ended drearily.
Then he left, and Bee sat down on the verandah steps to face the situation. It was over. All the delightful companionship, the long walks, the cataloguing,—everything. She dropped her head into her hands, and sobbed.
"Beatrice Raymond," said the voice of Percival, "what in the world is the matter? I have called twice and you did not answer."
"I didn't hear you." Bee raised her head, and looked at him dully.
"Are you mad at me?" he queried.
"No."