Where was his wife, Bee wondered, and when the meeting was over she drove to the house of a clergyman who she knew kept a kind of missionary hotel, and from him learned the address of the Rev. Theodore Morton. It was not at an uptown hotel, but at a second-rate boarding-house on Eighth street, where rooms and board were cheap, and there, on the third floor back, she found Mrs. Theodore Morton, the school-mistress from Vermont, who had so offended her taste with spectacles and a brown alpaca dress. The landlady had bidden her go directly to the room, where she knocked at the door, and then stood listening to a sweet, childish voice singing a lullaby to a baby. Again she knocked, and this time the voice said “Come in,” and she went in, and found a little girl of five years old, with black hair and eyes, and a dark, saucy, piquant face, seated in a low rocking-chair, and holding in her short, fat arms a pale, sickly baby of four months or thereabouts, which she was trying to hush to sleep. Near her, in an arm-chair, sat a round, rosy-cheeked little girl, who might have been three years old, though her height indicated a child much younger than that. On the bed, with her face to the wall, and apparently asleep, lay a woman, emaciated and thin, with streaks of gray in the long, black hair floating in masses over the pillow. Bee thought she must have made a mistake, but something in the blue eyes of the chubby girl in the chair arrested her attention, and she said to the elf with the baby in her arms: “Is Mrs. Morton here,—Mrs. Theodore Morton?” “Yes, that’s ma,—on the bed. She’s sick; she’s always sick. Tum in, but don’t make a noise, ’cause I’se tryin’ to rock baby brother to seep, like a good ’ittle dirl.” “An’ I’s dood, too,” chirped the dumpling in the high chair. “I’ve climbed up here to det out of the way, an’ not wake mamma an’ make her head ache, an’ papa’s goin’ to bring me some tandy, he is, when he tums from the meetin’.” There was no mistaking that blue-eyed, fair-haired child for other than Theodore Morton’s, and Beatrice stooped down and kissed her round, rosy cheek, and asked: “What is your name, little one?” “Mamie,—Mamie Morton; but dey calls me Bunchie, ’cause I’s so fat, an’ I’s mamma’s darlin’, and was tree ’ears old next week,” was the reply; and then Bee turned to the elf, and laying her hand on the jet-black hair, said: “And your name is what?” “Trixey everybody calls me but papa, who sometimes says Bee; but that ain’t my very name. It’s ever so long, with many B’s in it,” was the reply, and Bee’s heart gave a great bound, as she said: “Is it Beatrice?” “Yes, an’ more too, Beatrice sometin’.” “Beatrice Belknap, perhaps,” guessed the lady, and the child replied: “That’s it, but how did you know?” and the great eyes, so very black and inquisitive, looked wonderingly at Bee, who answered: “I am Beatrice Belknap, the lady for whom you were named, and I’ve come to see you. I used to know your father. Is he well?”