"Maria Indiana," she said, with mock severity, "you'll have to behave yourself better from now out, because I'm your mother."
The child's eyes filled and a big tear rolled down one cheek. She slid out of her chair and instinctively went to Robert, as one who might be trusted. "Is Tuzzin Bee my muzzer?" she asked plaintively.
"No, dear," he laughed, taking her up in his arms.
"Give her to me!" cried Beatrice, snatching her away from him. "You darling," she said tenderly, as another tear followed the first one; "I'm not your 'muzzer,'—I'm only your 'Tuzzin Bee.'"
"She's too little to joke with," said Forsyth, in an aside.
"And I'm too big to be lectured," replied Beatrice, with a saucy smile. "We get on all right, don't we, baby?"
Something in the girl's attitude, as she held the child in her arms, reminded Forsyth of a picture of the Madonna, and an unreasoning giddiness took possession of his senses. With a blind impulse to get away, he went out on the piazza, but Beatrice followed him.
"Cousin Rob," she said, in a low tone, "please tell me the truth—is there danger?"
There was no denial of that look in the eyes of the girl he loved, no chance to conceal the truth. He drew a quick inward breath as he thought, for the first time, what danger might mean to her. "Yes," he said, in a voice that was scarcely audible; "I am afraid there is."
In a flash he saw that she had misunderstood him, but it was too late to explain. The colour flamed into her cheeks, and she held her head high. "I'm sorry you're afraid," she said, scornfully, "I'm not!"