She did not know that she leant on Beatrice, but she did.

The effect of all this was that Miss Meadowsweet grew up something as the wild flowers do, with perfect liberty, and yet governed by the gracious and kindly laws which nature sets about her children.
Beatrice did not know what it was to be proud of her reputed wealth.
When she looked at her sweet face in the glass she was not vain of it.
Altogether, she was a very simple-hearted girl, as yet untouched by real trouble, for, except when her father died, its shadow had not approached her.
The passionate, childish sorrow for her father was no longer poignant.
She revered his memory, she loved to dwell on his gentleness and goodness, and in her own manner she tried to plant her young footsteps in his.
On the morning after the Rector's feast, Beatrice sat at home and waited for Captain Bertram.

She almost always wore white in the hot days, and she was in white now.

She chose natural flowers as her invariable adornment, and two crimson roses were now daintily fastened into her girdle.
Beatrice could not help wondering what special thing Captain Bertram had to communicate.

She was not particularly troubled or roused in any way by his admiration of her.