“But you can’t really think that if Philip was capable of acting in such an atrocious way, that papa would not find it out, and the other doctor too?” “What! when that man gets I don’t know how many guineas from mamma every time he comes, do you think that it is for his interest that I should get well?” “My dear Fred,” interposed his sister, “you are exciting yourself, and that is so very bad for you.” “I do assure you, Henrietta, you would find it very little exciting to be shut up in this room with half a teaspoonful of wishy-washy pudding twice a day, and all just to fill Philip Carey’s pockets! Now, there was old Clarke at Rocksand, he had some feeling for one, poor old fellow; but this man, not the slightest compunction has he; and I am ready to kick him out of the room when I hear that silky voice of his trying to be gen-tee-eel, and condoling; and those boots--O! Busy Bee! those boots! whenever he makes a step I always hear them say, ‘O what a pretty fellow I am!’” “You seem to be very merry here, my dears,” said Aunt Mary, coming in; “but I am afraid you will tire yourself, Freddy; I heard your voice even before I opened the door.” Fred was silent, a little ashamed, for he had sense enough not absolutely to believe all that he had been saying, and his mother, sitting down, began to talk to the visitor, “Well, my little Queen, we have seen very little of you of late, but we shall be very sorry to lose you. I suppose your mamma will have all your letters, and Henrietta must not expect any, but we shall want very much to know how you get on with Aunt Susan and her little dog.” “O very well, I dare say,” said Beatrice, rather absently, for she was looking at her aunt’s delicate fragile form, and thinking of what her father had been saying. “And Queenie,” continued her aunt, earnestly, “you must take great care of your papa--make him rest, and listen to your music, and read story-books instead of going back to his work all the evening.” “To be sure I shall, Aunt Mary, as much as I possibly can.” “But Bee,” said Fred, “you don’t mean that you are going to be shut up with that horrid Lady Susan all this time? Why don’t you stay here, and let her take care of herself?” “Mamma would not like that; and besides, to do her justice, she is really ill, Fred,” said Beatrice. “It is too bad, now I am just getting better--if they would let me, I mean,” said Fred: “just when I could enjoy having you, and now there you go off to that old woman. It is a downright shame.” “So it is, Fred,” said Queen Bee gaily, but not coquettishly, as once she would have answered him, “a great shame in you not to have learned to feel for other people, now you know what it is to be ill yourself.” “That is right, Bee,” said Aunt Mary, smiling; “tell him he ought to be ashamed of having monopolized you all so long, and spoilt all the comfort of your household. I am sure I am,” added she, her eyes filling with tears, as she affectionately patted Beatrice’s hand.