Stout Mrs. Bell dropped her companion's arm, moved two or three paces away, and accompanied her scorching glance with words of muffled thunder. "Beatrice Meadowsweet, you are either green with jealousy, or you are a perfect goose." CHAPTER XX. YOU CAN TAKE ANY RANK. Beatrice was not, in any sense of the word, a conventional girl. Her nature was independent, and from her earliest days she had been allowed a great deal of liberty. While her father lived he had trained her to love his tastes, to respond to his ideas; he had shared his thoughts with her, and as these thoughts happened to be original, and even slightly tinged with latent genius, the young girl had from the first taken a broad view of life. She was naturally intelligent; and to read and think for herself became a delight to her. Mr. Meadowsweet died when Beatrice was twelve and then that further thing happened which so often makes an unselfish woman really noble. Beatrice had to support the burdens of another. Mrs. Meadowsweet was a most loving and affectionate character; but she was not as strong mentally as her daughter. She did not know that she leant on Beatrice, but she did. The effect of all this was that Miss Meadowsweet grew up something as the wild flowers do, with perfect liberty, and yet governed by the gracious and kindly laws which nature sets about her children. 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.