“How old are you, Beatrice?” asked Catherine.

“I am nineteen; never mind my age, that has nothing whatever to say to the question I want you to answer.”

“I asked you about your age on purpose—­because I can’t answer your question.  You are nineteen, I am seventeen.  I feel like a child still; I don’t understand anything about loving people as you talk of love; but I could be kind, and if it lay in my power to keep hearts from breaking I think I’d be very glad to do it, and then Loftie is nice, Bee.”

Beatrice sighed.  For the first time there was a gulf between her and Catherine.  As an intelligent and intellectual companion, as an affectionate friend, Catherine was perfect; but in matters pertaining to love—­that great mystery which comes into most lives—­her unawakened heart was as a blank.

“You ask a great deal,” said Beatrice, rising to her feet with irritation.  “For some reason, I don’t know what, I am of value to you and yours.  I am not in your rank of life, still you want me.  Your mother is troubled, and in some inexplicable way I, an ignorant and uninformed country girl, can relieve her.  This is all very fine for you, but what about me?  I sacrifice myself forever to give temporary relief.  Catherine, you must tell me the truth.  Why do you want me?  Is it because of my money?”

“Have you money?” asked Catherine.  Her big, innocent, honest eyes looked full at her friend, their expression showed bewilderment.  When she looked at her in this way Beatrice suddenly burst into a fit of laughter.  Then she put her arms round Catherine and kissed her two or three times.

“Kate, you are the sweetest girl I ever met in all my life.  You are good, you are innocent.  Kitty, I would do much for you.”

“And Loftus is very kind,” repeated Catherine; “and he’s handsome, too.  He often told me that girls fell in love with him.”

Beatrice patted Catherine’s cheek.

“Little puss!” she said, “he ought not to breathe such words in your innocent ears.  So it is not for my money your mother and Loftus want me so badly, Kitty.”

“I never heard either of them breathe the subject of your money.  Have you any?”

“Yes, some.”

“That would be nice, for somehow lately we seem to be dreadfully poor.”

“If I were turned into a grand and patrician Bertram, and made into your sister, sweet little Kitty, you shouldn’t be poor.  I’d see to that.  I’d dress you and pet you, and lade you with gifts.”

“Beatrice, how bright your eyes are.”

“Yes, I am excited when I think of the possible benefit I may be to you.”

“I only want you to be my sister, and to make my mother and Loftus happy.  My mother has a hidden trouble about which I must not speak; and for some reason which I cannot in the least understand, if you marry Loftus that trouble will disappear.”

“And you want it to disappear?”