“No, my dear neighbor, I won’t take anything amiss, from you at present, only, if I were you, I wouldn’t worry Beatrice with advice to-night.  Yon have time enough for that.  Time and to spare for that, poor dear.”

“There you are with your ‘poor dear,’ again, Jessie.  Now whose ring is that at the bell?  Oh, it’s Bee, of course; come back at last, my girl has.  Well, Jessie Morris, I wish you good-night.”

“Stay a minute, neighbor—­that isn’t Bee’s voice.”  The door was opened, and Miss Peters came in.

“How are you, Mrs. Meadowsweet,” she said, running up to the good lady and giving her a kiss, which resembled the peck of an eager bird, on her cheek.  “I ran on first, and Martha is following.  I came to know how you are, and how you’re bearing up—­and is Beatrice in?”

“I do declare,” said Mrs. Meadowsweet.  She rose from her easy-chair.  “You mean to be good-natured, neighbors, but really you’re enough to deave one.  How am I bearing up?  Am I the woman to bring ill-luck to my child by crying at her wedding?  No, she’s not in—­she’s at the Bertrams.  But there’s her ring now at the hall-door.  Good-night, neighbors both.  You mean it kindly, but don’t stay just now.  I have a word or two to say to the girl in private to-night.”

“I think that’s Martha’s voice,” said Miss Peters.  “Don’t say that I told you anything, Mrs. Meadowsweet.”

The door was opened, and Mrs. Butler came in.

This good woman, who led the army of the Beatricites, had now attained to all the airs of a victorious general.  Her bonnet-strings were thrown back, her face was flushed, and her throat, conspicuous by the absence of her large white brooch, was bared to view.

“Well, my friend,” she said.  “Well, the time is near.”

She took Mrs. Meadowsweet’s fat hand, squeezed it hard, and looked with awful solemnity into her eyes.

“Good gracious,” said the poor woman.  “I never felt more exasperated in all my life.  Any one would suppose that my girl was drowned in the harbor from the faces you one and all bring me.”

“Mrs. Meadowsweet,” said Mrs. Butler, “there is such a thing as having the body safe and well, and the character drowned.”

Mrs. Meadowsweet’s cheeks flushed deeply.

“I’ll thank you to explain yourself, Martha Butler,” she said.  “Whose character is drowned?”

“No one’s,” said Mrs. Butler.  “Or at least, no one who belongs to us.”

Here she waved one of her arms in theatrical style.

“I have fought for that girl,” she said, “as my sister Maria can bear testimony, and my friend Mrs. Morris can vouch—–­I have fought for her, and I may truly say I have brought her through a sea of slander—­yes, through a sea of slander—­victorious.  Now, who’s that?  Who’s coming to interrupt us?”

“It’s only me, Mrs. Butler,” said Beatrice.  She came quietly into the room.  Her face was white, but its expression was serene, and almost happy.