Margaret Cameron did not in the least resemble Jamie’s mother, but she resembled a woman who might well have been typical of a universal mother, and exactly the right kind of a mother at that. Her face was beautiful with a severely cut beauty that always indicates an indomitable spirit. With one glance at Margaret Cameron one would have been safe in arriving at the conclusion that she would be drawn and quartered before she would renounce her religion, her country, her political opinions, or her family. She was tall; she carried no ounce of superfluous flesh. Her hair was white and her eyes were blue. There was colour in her lips and cheeks. She looked wonderful to Jamie when she smiled at him.
“I had a ring from Doctor Grayson this morning,” she said. “He thought you would be sleeping and he didn’t want to waken you. He told me you were to take care of things here until the Bee Master comes back to us. I never was sorrier about anything than I was over being away when he was stricken. A young relative of mine needed me sorely; there was death in her family and I was forced to go to her.”
“I think,” said Jamie, “that I found everything the Bee Master required and I believe there was no time lost.”
There was a hint of finality in the slight gesture in which Margaret Cameron threw out her hands.
“I haven’t a doubt,” she said, bluntly, “but the Bee Master had everything he needed. There is no one on earth who wouldn’t do anything Michael Worthington wanted. The point is that he was forced to call on a
