“Come in,” said the rich, deep, sweet voice—­always sweet in its tones, whether addressing man, woman, or child—­human being or bumb brute; “come in.”

Bee entered the little chamber, so dark after the lighted rooms below.

In the recess of the dormer window, at a small table lighted by one candle, sat Ishmael, bending over an open volume.  His cheek was pale, his expression weary.  He looked up, and recognizing Bee, arose with a smile to meet her.

“How dark you are up here, all alone, Ishmael,” she said, coming forward.

Ishmael snuffed his candle, picked the wick, and sat it up on his pile of books that it might give a better light, and then turned again smilingly towards Bee, offered her a chair and stood as if waiting her command.

“What are you doing up here alone, Ishmael?” she inquired, with her hand upon the back of the chair that she omitted to take.

“I am studying ‘Kent’s Commentaries,’” answered the young man.

“I wish you would study your own health a little more, Ishmael!  Why are you not down with us?”

“My dear Bee, I am better here.”

“Nonsense, Ishmael!  You are here too much.  You confine yourself too closely to study.  You should remember the plain old proverb—­proverbs are the wisdom of nations, you know—­the old proverb which says:  ’All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’  Come!”

“My dear friend, Bee, you must excuse me.”

“But I will not.”

“Bee—­”

“I insist upon your coming, Ishmael.”

“Bee, do not.  I should be the wrong man in the wrong place.”

“Now, why do you say that?”

“Because I have no business in a ballroom, Bee.”

“You have as much business there as anyone else.”

“What should I do there, Bee?”

“Dance! waltz! polka!  At our school balls you were one of the best dancers we had, I recollect.  Now, with your memory and your ear for music, you would do as well as then.”

“But who would dance with me in Washington, dear Bee?  I am a total stranger to everyone out of this family.  And I have no right to ask an introduction to any of the belles,” said Ishmael.

“I will dance with you, Ishmael, to begin with, if you will accept me as a partner.  And I do not think you will venture to refuse your little adopted sister and old playmate.  Come, Ishmael.”

“Dearest little sister, do you know that I declined Judge Merlin’s invitation?”

“Yes; he told me so, and sent me here to say to you, that he will not excuse you, that he insists upon your coming.  Come, Ishmael!”

“Dear Bee, you constrain me.  I will come.  Yes, I confess I am glad to be ‘constrained.’  Sometimes, dear, we require to be compelled to do as we like; or, in other words, our consciences require just excuses for yielding certain points to our inclinations.  I have been secretly wishing to be with you all the evening.  The distant sound of the music has been alluring me very persuasively. (That is a magnificent band of Dureezie’s, by the way.) I have been longing to join the festivities.  And I am glad, my little liege lady, that you lay your royal commands on me to do so.”