Awful as the anguish of his parting with Claudia had been, it was
not likely that Ishmael, with his strength of intellect and will,
would long succumb to despair. It was not in Claudia's power to make
his life quite desolate; how could it be so while Bee cared for him?

Bee had loved Ishmael as long as Ishmael had loved Claudia. She had
loved him when he was a boy at school; when he was a young country
teacher; when he was a law-student; and she loved him now that he
was a successful barrister. This love, founded in esteem and honor,
had constantly deepened and strengthened. In loving Ishmael, she
found mental and spiritual development; and in being near him and
doing him good she found comfort and happiness. And being perfectly
satisfied with the present, Bee never gave a thought to the future.
That she tacitly left, where it belongs, to God.

Or if at times, on perceiving Ishmael's utter obliviousness of her
own kindly presence and his perfect devotion to the thankless
Claudia, Bee felt a pang, she went and buried herself with domestic
duties, or played with the children in the nursery, or what was
better still, if it happened to be little Lu's "sleepy time" she
would take her baby-sister up to her own room, sit down and fold her
to her breast and rock and sing her to sleep. And certainly the
clasp of those baby-arms about her neck, and the nestling of that
baby-form to her bosom, drew out all the heart-ache and soothed all
the agitation.

Except these little occasional pangs Bee had always been blessed in
loving. Her love, all unrequited, as it seemed, was still the
sweetest thing in the world to her; and it seemed thus, because in