Your father's face, has, however, over and over flashed before my mental
vision, and the look in his eyes has comforted me. In one sense you are
a fool, Beatrice; in another, you are thrice blessed. Forgive this
little preamble. I have arranged matters as you wish. I shall be home
this evening. Come to me in my study at nine o'clock to-night, my dear
ward, and act in the meantime exactly as your true, brave heart
suggests."
Beatrice read this letter in her own room. She was quite mortal enough
to shed some tears over it, but when she sat opposite to her mother at
breakfast, her face was quite as jubilant as any young bride's might be,
who was so soon to leave home.
Mrs. Meadowsweet looked at her girl with great pride.
"You feature your father wonderfully, Bee," she said. "It isn't only the
Grecian nose, and the well-cut lips, and the full, straight kind of
glance in your eyes, but it's more. It's my belief that your soul
features Meadowsweet; he was ever and always the best of men. Crotchety
from uprightness he was, but upright was no word for him."
"Well, mother, I should like to resemble my father in that particular."
"Yes, my love, yes. Meadowsweet was always heights above me, and so are
you also, for that matter."
"That is not true, mother, you must not say it.
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