"Well, I declare! Good gracious! what next? How we do put on airs! For my part—I—"
"Very well. If you will not vacate, I shall leave the room myself," cried Beatrix, too indignant to endure any more. She was faint and exhausted from fatigue and the exposures of the night. No one had offered her even a cup of tea or the slightest refreshment after her adventure in the cold night air, chilled and half clothed as she had been; and she was not enough at home in the house, where she had lived for sixteen years, to venture to suggest her need of refreshment. She flashed swiftly past the discomfited Serena, and down the bare stairs to Doctor Lynne's large cheerful sleeping apartment. Mrs. Lynne was still with the patient, and peeping in at the open door of Doctor Lynne's room, Beatrix was so fortunate as to find him there alone.
"Papa!"—hesitatingly—"may I speak with you?"
Frederick Lynne glanced up, and a glad light flashed over his worn countenance.
"Certainly, my dear!" he returned. "Come in. Why, Beatrix, child!"—with a startled glance into her white face—"you are ill, exhausted. How thoughtless and selfish in me not to think of you before. Here, drink a glass of wine!"
He filled a glass from the decanter of home-made wine upon the table, and held it to her lips. Beatrix drained the contents of the glass; then she sank wearily into the empty chair at his side.
"Papa, do you know anything concerning my parents—my real parents?" she asked, abruptly.
His face grew pale.
"No, dear; you have heard all that I know in regard to your history. Do not trouble yourself, Beatrix; it will all come right some time, I am sure. Try to have faith that all is for the best."