Beatrice did not know what it was to be proud of her reputed wealth.  When she looked at her sweet face in the glass she was not vain of it.  Altogether, she was a very simple-hearted girl, as yet untouched by real trouble, for, except when her father died, its shadow had not approached her.

The passionate, childish sorrow for her father was no longer poignant.  She revered his memory, she loved to dwell on his gentleness and goodness, and in her own manner she tried to plant her young footsteps in his.

On the morning after the Rector’s feast, Beatrice sat at home and waited for Captain Bertram.  She almost always wore white in the hot days, and she was in white now.  She chose natural flowers as her invariable adornment, and two crimson roses were now daintily fastened into her girdle.

Beatrice could not help wondering what special thing Captain Bertram had to communicate.  She was not particularly troubled or roused in any way by his admiration of her.  He was certainly pleasant to talk to; she had never met a refined man of the world before, and Captain Bertram was handsome to look at, and had a charming way of saying charming nothings.  Beatrice did not object to his talking to her, but her heart had never yet in the smallest degree responded to any beat of his.

More than one young man in Northbury had fallen in love with Beatrice.  She had been very kind to these would-be lovers, and had managed skilfully to get rid of them.  No man yet had secured even a small place in her affections.

“Are you going out this morning, Bee?” asked her mother.  “It’s very fine, and you are fond of a row on the water in the sunshine.  It’s wonderful to me how your skin never tans nor freckles, child.  You might be out in all weathers without its doing you harm.”

Mrs. Meadowsweet was seated in her arm-chair.  In her hand she held a piece of knitting.  She was making a quilt for Beatrice’s bed.  This quilt was composed of little squares of an elaborate pattern, with much honey-combing, and many other fancy and delicate stitches ornamenting it.  Mrs. Meadowsweet liked to feel her fingers employed over Beatrice’s quilt.

“With each stitch I give her a thought,” she said to herself.  “Beatrice will sleep soft and warm under this covering when it is finished,” the old mother used to say, “for every bit of it is put together with love.”

She was knitting Beatrice’s quilt now, her chair drawn up as usual to face the sunny garden, and on the footstool at her feet her favorite tabby cat was curled.

“It is too hot for me to go out this morning,” replied Beatrice.  “So for that reason I don’t go, and also for another.  Captain Bertram has promised to call.”

“Eh?” queried Mrs. Meadowsweet.  To call, has he?  Maybe you’d like to ask him to lunch, child?”

“No, mother, I don’t think so.”

“You can if you like, Trixie.  Say the word, and I’ll have a spring chicken done to a turn, and a cream, and a jelly put in hand.”