"What! Has Vera been arguing with the bees again?" The question came fresh and clear from behind the hives. Marion stood there, making a fair picture indeed in her white cotton dress. There was no shade of trouble in her eyes. She met Geoffrey's glance squarely. Her hand rested on his shoulder with a palpably tender squeeze. It was the only kind of allusion she made to last night's doings. She might not have had a single care or sorrow in the world. She seemed to take almost a childlike interest in the bees, the simple interest of one who has yet to be awakened to the knowledge of a conscience. Geoffrey had never admired Marion more than he did at this moment. "Marion is afraid of my bees," Vera said. Marion drew away shuddering from one of the velvety brown insects. "I admit it," she said. "They get on one's clothes and sting for pure mischief. And I am a sight after a bee has been operating upon me. If I had my own way, there would be a fire here some day and then there would be no more bees." They trooped into breakfast, disputing the point cheerfully. It was impossible to be downcast on so perfect a morning. Even the elders had discarded their gloom. Ralph Ravenspur mildly astonished everybody by relating an Eastern experience _apropos_ of bees. "But they were not like these," he concluded. "They were big black bees and their honey is poisonous. It is gathered from noxious swamp flowers and, of course, is only intended for their own food. Even those bees----" The speaker paused, as if conscious that he was talking too much. He proceeded with his breakfast slowly. "Go on," said Marion. "I am interested." "I was going to say," Ralph remarked in his croaking voice, "that even those bees know how to protect themselves." It was a lame conclusion and Marion said so. Geoffrey glanced at his uncle. As plainly as possible he read on the latter's face a desire to change the conversation. It was sufficiently easy to turn the talk into another channel, and during the rest of the meal not another word came from Ralph Ravenspur. Once more he was watching, watching for something with his sightless eyes. And Geoffrey was watching Marion most of the time. She was gentle and gay and sweet as ever, as if strong emotions and herself had always been strangers. It seemed hard to recall the stirring events of the night before and believe that this was the same girl. How wonderfully she bore up for the sake of others; how bravely she crushed her almost overwhelming sorrow. She stood chatting on the pavement after breakfast. She was prattling gayly to Geoffrey, as the other gradually vanished on some mission or another. Then her face suddenly changed; her grasp on Geoffrey's arm was almost convulsive. "Now then," she whispered. "Let us get it over." Geoffrey strolled by her side along the terrace. They came at length to a spot where they could not be seen from the house. Marion turned almost defiantly. "Now I am going to speak," she whispered.