"Good morning, Beatrice," she said, noting the girl's paleness instantly. "You have made quite a conquest of my son. He has never taken so to a girl before."
"She's different," spoke Percival sententiously, adjusting the music on the rack, and picking up his violin. "Other girls don't think of anything but dresses and things to wear. She doesn't tag after a fellow either. I like her. You must not talk any more, mamma. She is troubled, and I'm going to play to make her feel better."
"Very well," said the lady, with a faint smile. "Sit here by me, my dear," she added kindly to Beatrice.
The girl sank into a low chair by her side, comforted in spite of herself by their kindness. Presently the young violinist began to play. Beatrice listened perfunctorily at first, but pretty soon she found herself caught, and held by his wonderful playing. On and on he played, not watching her with challenging, curious eyes to note the effect as before, but, like the true artist that he was, bending earnestly to the task of bringing comfort and consolation to her heart.
It was Beethoven that touched her most. Under the influence of his divine music Bee felt her heart strings relax, and as the mighty climax of the last movement swelled into ecstacy, infinite as the human soul, she burst into a flood of tears. At a glance from his mother Percival stole softly into the house, while the lady drew the girl into her arms.
"There!" she said, smoothing her hair gently. "That will do you good, my child."
Petting was what the girl needed, and soon her emotion spent itself. When at last she was calm she looked up contritely.
"I should not have come over, and made so much trouble," she said. "Forgive me, Mrs. Medulla; I will go home now. Thank you—"
"My dear," spoke the lady, drawing her back into her embrace, "suppose you tell me all about it."
Beatrice looked at her quickly, but seeing the sympathy in the older woman's eyes she broke out impulsively: