unty?" she asked wearily one morning as Mrs. Raymond called
her into the sewing room for a fitting.

"Yes; this is the very last one, child; and a beauty it is too."

"I do not think that I ever had so many dresses in all my life
together," observed the girl. "What am I to do with them all?"

"You will find use for everything when you reach the college, Beatrice,"
smiled the lady. "This one is for evening. There are many social
functions, and of course you will take part in them. It is tiresome, I
know, to fit all these things but you will be glad later that you have
them."

"I may be," answered Bee. "I am not ungrateful, aunty, for all that you
are doing, only just now it seems as though there were ever so many more
than I will need. And," she added with a troubled look and speaking in a
lower tone, "are you sure that father can afford to spend so much on
me?"

"You absurd child!" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond with misty eyes. "Of course
he can. I think myself that he is doing more than is necessary, but it
pleases him, Bee, so accept it for the pleasure it gives him."

"But if he is denying himself," began Bee, but they were interrupted by
the entrance of Aunt Fanny.

"Dose satanic gen'mun dat wuz heah ter dinnah dat time dey is all
downstairs, an' dey say dey wants ter see Miss Bee," she announced.

"Isn't it father?" asked Bee in astonishment. "He is in the library,
Aunt Fanny. You mean him, don't you?"

"No'm; I doesn't. Dey said Miss Beatrice Raymond," answered the negress
pompously. "Jest like dat: Miss Beatrice Raymond."

"Better run down, Bee," suggested her aunt. "I dare say that they wish
to see you again as this may be their last visit before William goes."

So wonderingly Beatrice went down to the library. They were all there.
The four scientists whom she had entertained with the Butterfly Dinner
that now seemed so long ago. They arose at her entrance and greeted her
cordially albeit with some embarrassment. Her father, too, appeared
moved out of his ordinary composure.

"Miss Raymond," spoke one of the naturalists, "we have sent for
you--that is--we have never forgotten that dinner, and as a token of
our appreciation--"

"You are all wrong, Davis," broke in another. "It isn't a token at all.
It is her natural right."

"You see," exclaimed the shy man whom Bee remembered so well, "that we
were astonished when we learned how you had helped to catalogue the
specimens which your father brought back,