Something in the tone made Mrs. Hayden look suspiciously at Beatrice, as she wondered whether it was Mrs. Sniffe who was only to be met at general parties, or Miss Belknap herself; while Mrs. Morton felt emboldened to say: “Mrs. Sniffe,—that’s the woman we met at Arnold’s who called me a frump. Maybe she forgets that she once worked in the factory at Lowell.” She had fired her heavy gun, and felt better for it, inasmuch as she had hit the enemy, who reddened, as she replied: “I believe she was there for a short time, but honest labor does not hurt a person in this country.” Then she talked of Mrs. Sniffe’s grandeur and style, until Bee was tired of it and arose to go, promising to call next day and decide when to take Trixey. Mrs. Hayden followed her into the hall, and, begging her pardon, asked who made the dress she was wearing. “Mademoiselle Verwest made it and sent it to me. Her address is No.——, Rue St. Honoré, Paris,” Bee replied. And, somewhat discomfited, Mrs. Hayden bowed her thanks, and returned to her cousin, whom she badgered about her weak nerves, and want of energy, until the poor woman burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping, and cried herself sick. Beatrice found her in bed next day, and as the little room seemed so close and full of children, she carried Trixey away with her to her friend’s house, and for a day or two devoted herself wholly to the child, who was kept in such a state of surprise and bewilderment that she did not once cry for the mother down on Eighth street. Beatrice bought her a doll nearly as large as herself, and bought her a kitchen, with wash-tub and stove, and a China tea-set and table, and beautiful dresses for herself, and then whisked her off to the train before she had time to recover from the excitement of so many wonderful things. Mr. Morton was at the depot, but Trixey did not see him. It was thought better that she should not, so he looked his farewell from a distance, but said good-by to Beatrice, and held her hand closely pressed in his own, as he said: “God bless you, Bee, for all you have done for us. We never can forget it. Good-by. You will, of course, write to Mollie as soon as you get home.” “Yes, certainly,” Beatrice said, hating herself because the name Mollie as spoken by Theo grated on her nerves, and seemed in some way a wrong to herself. Bee knew such feelings were foolish, and as often as they rose within her, she took Trix in her lap and kissed her, and talked to her of the mother they were leaving so far behind, and whose eyes looked at her through the child’s, save that Trixey’s were larger, and more weird in their expression. It was late in the afternoon when they reached Rothsay, and were driven to Elm Park. Bee had telegraphed to Aunt Rachel that she was coming with a little girl, so everything was in readiness for them, and Trixey was made much of, and talked to and looked at, until she began to nod in her chair, and was taken up to bed.