GOOD-BYE, Miss Billy."

"Good-bye, Beatitude. You're a dear to help me off in this way. I won't forget it in a hurry."

"All rightie. See that you don't."

"And Bea, don't vex your soul over that mending basket. It's only one stitch in nine that saves time, you know."

"I won't, but you'd better make haste; you'll miss the boat."

"A miss wouldn't be as good as a mile then, would it? Good-bye, again. Yes, mother, I have a handkerchief. Also a corkscrew for the olives. Also my rubbers. Good-bye, everybody."

Miss Billy was going to a picnic, and in her usual way. The whole house had been in an uproar since six o'clock. There had been a hurried dressing, a hurried breakfast, and a hurried packing of lunch; and it was not until the blue linen suit disappeared around the corner that a lull fell over the home, and the household paused to take breath.

There were still the remains of the preparations for lunch to be cleared away, the study to be made clean, and the disorder which was left in Miss Billy's wake to be remedied. Her sister's work added to her own took Beatrice longer than usual, and it was ten o'clock before she came languidly into the garden with the mending basket under her arm. She tumbled out a large bundle of ragged stockings, and set to work.

It was hot and deserted on Cherry Street. Even in the shade, where Beatrice sat, the air was sultry and close, and the garden seat warm to the touch. The children seemed to have melted away from sidewalk and gutter. The absence of Miss Billy and Theodore had left the place unnaturally dull and forlorn, and the incessant tick-tick of the little creatures in the grass was the only sound that broke the stillness.

Beatrice's thoughts flew with her needle. Last year at this time the whole family were at Gordon's Lake for the season. And it had been such a gay summer. A summer of boating and dancing; of driving and golfing, of pretty clothes, and new friends and good times. A summer of long, jolly, merry days, and of long, cool, restful nights. A summer that seemed made for the merriment that only ended when the last good-byes were said.

And now everybody else was going away; the Seabrookes, and the Van Courtlands and even the Blanchards; and they were to be left at home. It was all right for the rest of the family; Theodore hated "resorts," and Miss Billy never seemed to care for anything so long as she had her beloved books and flowers and children. "But I care," thought Beatrice bitterly, "more than I ever thought I should care for anything."

It was easy enough to be good when one was happy, when good friends and pleasant times and pretty clothes were one's birthright; but when poverty and hard work was one's portion, when one's clothes were shabby and when one lived on Cherry Street——! A hot tear baptised Theodore's gay striped sock, and Beatrice, forgetful of her age and dignity, put her head down on the garden seat, and like little Cinderella, "let the tears have their way."

The stout, rosy-faced man who came up the front walk and rang the door bell did not look like a fairy godmother, but the most beneficent fairies go about disguised. Beatrice was so busy wiping her eyes that she did not notice his arrival, and as she went bravely back to work she little guessed the surprise that was in store for her. Not even the glad note in her mother's voice when she called her into the house made her suspicious.

The rosy-faced man was leaning up against the door of the study, smiling benignantly at Mr. and Mrs. Lee. He beamed even more delightedly as Beatrice entered.

Mrs. Lee scarcely waited for their greeting. Her eyes shone as she put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, and her voice was very happy as she said:

"Guess, dearie, what Mr. Van Courtland has come for. He wants you to go abroad next week."

The self-possessed Beatrice lost her dignity. She grew rosy with delight and gasped speechlessly for a moment before she ejaculated brokenly:

"Me? To go abroad? Oh, mother!"

That "oh, mother!" settled the matter, Mrs. Lee decided at once that she must go.

"It will not be a very long trip," explained Mr. Van Courtland. "We did not intend to start until later, but that bugbear 'business' stands like a fence between me and the rest of the world. Be thankful, Lee, that you are not a banker. Mrs. Van Courtland and I shall sail on the 16th, land seven days later, and go immediately to Cologne for Margaret. We hope to be in Germany long enough for the Rhine trip, but shall probably sail for home immediately afterwards. We planned to borrow Miss Billy to take with us, but Mrs. Van Courtland says that the sea breezes will be just the thing for Beatrice's pale cheeks. She ought to see you this minute, young lady. You're anything but pale and wan now."

Beatrice did not even notice the compliment. Her brain was moving faster than Mr. Van Courtland's words. Europe, sea breezes, the Rhine! To leave the heat and dust of the city, the shabbiness and noise of Cherry Street, for the enchanting country across the sea. It seemed like a glorious dream of white-capped waves and cool breezes, from which one must wake up to the swarming Canarys and the loud-voiced Hennesys on Cherry Street.

"And if she goes, she goes as our guest. Mrs. Van Courtland dreads the trip, and I confess a lingering longing for a young piece of humanity when I am aboard ship. As for our own Margie,—why she will jump out of her beloved Germany with joy when she sees a glimpse of her home friend. We will consider it a great favour if you'll lend us your girl for a while."

The matter was hurriedly decided. Mrs. Lee looked over at her husband with a quick glance that showed how much motherly love and anxiety for her daughter was at stake. The minister answered with a nod and a smile that seemed to say, "We must manage it."

Mr. Van Courtland departed satisfied, and Beatrice returned to the garden seat to dreamily wind the darning cotton into a snarl, and whisper joyfully to herself, "I am going abroad."

There was a family council after supper that night. Beatrice had rather dreaded to tell Miss Billy the glorious news, feeling that the trip was originally planned for the younger sister, but Miss Billy sternly frowned upon her sister's reticence.

"The idea!" she said scornfully, "of thinking that I should be so mean and small about a thing like this. You would have been delighted if this trip had come to me,"—Beatrice made a small mental reservation—"and it belongs to you anyway. You need it more than I do."

If she felt any disappointment she failed to show it either in action or word, but went on making extravagant plans, and most elaborate suggestions for the trip. She offered to lend Beatrice anything and everything she possessed, from her cut glass vase to her ice cream freezer, and the last thing the elder sister heard that night was a recipe for sea sickness and an idea for making over a travelling suit out of Miss Billy's brown gown.

It was daybreak when Beatrice awoke. The house was very still and quiet, and the light morning breeze blew aside the white curtains at the windows. Beatrice raised herself on one elbow and looked out at the little glimpse of water visible between the high roofs. The sun was rising, away out on the breast of the lake, and each little ruffled wave was touched with a crest of gold.

Beatrice was not often affected by her surroundings, but just now, in the light of her new happiness, the day seemed symbolic of her life, and the sun that gilded the grey waves like the pleasant plan that had made her sombre life glad. Yesterday's grief seemed very far away, and to-day's joy was very near and dear. She clasped her hands, and whispered earnestly: "Help me to deserve it, Lord." The sounds of the two whispered voices which came from the next room did not disturb her, and she lay dreamily happy in her own thoughts, until the sound of her own name aroused her. It was her father's voice that said:

"Well, Beatrice needs it. We must manage it some way."

The girl turned her head, and listened intently as he continued:

"How much money is it going to cost us?"

Mrs. Lee's estimate was not discernible, but her husband's reply betrayed its tenor:

"I wish a hundred dollars came as easily to me now as it did six months ago."

"I don't see how we can do it for any less," said Mrs. Lee. "Bea's wardrobe is scanty, and she will require more clothes than she needs when she is at home. Beside, she will have to have money for incidentals. Mr. Van Courtland is very generous, but we don't want to impose on him, or embarrass Beatrice."

"Oh, no, she can't get along with any less. Still, it will be a little hard to spare just now. I feel our poverty most when it touches the children."

"It is a good deal, but I think it's worth the sacrifice. Beatrice has looked white and worn lately, and we can't afford to let her be sick."

"I hadn't noticed it," said Mr. Lee anxiously. "Do you think she's not well?"

"It's heart sickness as much as anything else. Bea has never seemed happy since we moved onto Cherry Street. She misses the old home and the old friends. She was not so easily reconciled as Wilhelmina and Theodore."

"Then I think more than ever that we must manage it. I shall not regret the effort if she comes back physically improved. After that I'll trust the mental and moral indisposition to take care of themselves. Bea is not naturally pessimistic."

"But I don't see exactly how we are to arrange it. We are living so near to our income just now; and I don't know how to economise more closely than I have been doing."

Mr. Lee made a suggestion that Beatrice did not hear, to which his wife replied decidedly:

"No, dear man, you can't get along without that. A minister can't afford to go shabby. We'll find some other way of saving. I can let Maggie go home for a month or two. Beatrice's going away will make the family smaller, and I'm sure Wilhelmina and I could do the housework."

"No indeed." The minister's voice was most emphatic. "That would be extravagant economy. You would be sick in a month. I can spare the money, I'm sure, but I shall have to give up a cherished plan to do it. I hoped to be able to rent a horse and buggy for you two days a week this summer. You don't get enough of out of doors, and it tires you so to walk."

There was a glad little note in Mrs. Lee's reply that went straight to Bea's heart.

"Oh, if that is all!" she exclaimed. "Why John, I'd rather never drive again than to have Beatrice miss this opportunity. It will mean so much to her. Beside, dear, do you think I would enjoy driving around in state while my husband was shabby?"

"No, it doesn't sound like you," said Mr. Lee. "Still, I would like to do it for you," he added wistfully.

"Well, dear, don't say a word to spoil Beatrice's pleasure. She seemed so glad to go! And I think we all would be willing to sacrifice ourselves a little for her sake."

The conversation ended there. The father and mother went back to sleep, and the eavesdropper returned to her pillow with wet eyes. Her soul, as well as her body, was wide awake, and perhaps for the first time in her life, Beatrice realised the beauty and divineness of self sacrifice. In the light of the whispered conversation the melancholy of the day before seemed petty and unworthy, and the girl who sternly choked back the tears of disappointment was not the girl who had wept in the garden. Nobody ever knew of the struggle which took place in the little white bed, nor was any the wiser for the puddle of tears that made a miniature lake in the pillow; but Beatrice was victor in the battle with herself.

As the clock struck five, a slim little figure in white crept silently out of bed, and tiptoed over to the desk, that Miss Billy should not be wakened. A stranger would not have appreciated the depth of the struggle; but to Beatrice it was the tragedy of a lifetime, and there was real heroism in the letter which read: