"Through the open doorA drowsy smell of flowers—gray heliotrope,And sweet white clover, and shy mignonette—Comesfaintly in, and the silent chorus lendsTo the pervading symphony of peace."—Among the Hills. Whittier.
"Through the open doorA drowsy smell of flowers—gray heliotrope,And sweet white clover, and shy mignonette—Comesfaintly in, and the silent chorus lendsTo the pervading symphony of peace."
—Among the Hills. Whittier.
Doctor Raymond's visitor proved to be a fellow naturalist who became so interested in his host's rare specimens that he spent the entire day examining them. Beatrice passed the time in her own room, loath to subject herself to curious eyes.
Aunt Fanny came up after a time with a second lot of jimpson leaves which she proceeded to make into a poultice despite the girl's protestations.
"Yer mus', honey," insisted the negress. "I'se done been down ter Miss Browne's, an' she say hit air de onliest thing ter do. She say hats turn yaller 'fore deys bleached, an' hit's de same wid yer skin. Dis'll be de las' time."
"It doesn't matter now, Aunt Fanny," said Bee miserably. "I was silly to do anything, but I thought, I thought!—"
"Nebber min' what yer thunk, chile," consoled the old woman. "Hit am jest like a gal: allers a wantin' sumpin' like sum udder gal. Now jest put on dis, an' you-all will kum out all right."
Beatrice was too tired to expostulate further, and submitted once more to the martyrdom of the poultice with little care as to the result. Her heart was too heavy to take any further interest in such efforts; for she believed that she had completely alienated her father, and she cared for nothing else. The day came to an end at last, and night brought surcease of sorrow, for she slept.
As Aunt Fanny had predicted, she found that her complexion had indeed bleached out to its natural color by the next morning. Cheered in spite of herself by this fact she went down to breakfast with lighter heart. Doctor Raymond's pleased look showed that he marked the improvement in her appearance, but he made no comment. Neither did he refer to the conversation of the day before until the close of the meal. Then he said:
"Beatrice, yesterday you said that I shut you out from me; that I did not know you because I did not try to. I have not meant to be guilty of such a thing, but there was enough of truth in your remarks to make me feel that perhaps I have been somewhat negligent of you. You shall have no further cause to accuse me of this; so, if you are willing, we will drop all unpleasant things and make a new start. Part of each day I shall be obliged to devote to my forthcoming book, and those hours I must be alone. All the rest of the time, however, you may spend with me."
"Oh, father!" cried Bee in surprise. "Do you mean that I am really to be with you? Even when you are in the study arranging your specimens?"
"Just that, Beatrice. We will learn to know each other, and it may be that we shall find that companionship to which, it seems, we both looked forward. There is but one thing that I would ask of you: don't try to be like any one else. Let me see you as you are."
"I can promise that easily," answered Beatrice cheerfully, her spirits rising at the knowledge that she was in very truth to have his companionship. "I really don't want to be like any one else. I'd rather be just myself. And I don't like this yellow hair. I didn't know that it wasn't refined to bleach it. One of the girls at school did it, and while the rest of us laughed about it, we thought it looked nice. I would rather have my own colored hair even though it is dark; but this won't last, father. Miss Harris said that it would have to be touched up every once in a while. Of course the ends will always be yellow, but just as soon as it grows long enough I'll cut it off, and have my own dark locks again."
"I am glad that it will not be permanent," remarked her father. "Let us say no more about it. It does not look so bad as it might, and the mere fact that you did not bleach it through vanity makes me more tolerant of it. Now, my child, I am going for a walk over the grounds, and would like your company."
Beatrice ran joyfully for her hat.
"He's giving me a chance," she whispered, scarcely able to control her emotion. "I am glad, glad! I won't think a thing about Adele. I won't mind my looks a bit, but just be so good that maybe, maybe—" She did not finish her sentence, but squeezed her hands together rapturously.
"I have been too busy since my return to go over the place," said the naturalist as they set forth. "Beginning with this morning we will go over a portion of it daily until the entire place has been inspected. Will it be too much of a walk for you to take the gardens and the orchard today?"
"Why, no;" answered Bee quickly. "I am used to walking, father. We always walked into town from Uncle Henry's, and to school too. Aunt Annie thought it was good for us. Then I run about the fields quite a little."
"Annie has followed my idea exactly," he commented approvingly. "There is nothing so conducive to good health as outdoor exercise. Ah! here we are at the gardens. They have been well kept; but, but—" He glanced around the mass of blossom and vines knitting his brows in perplexity. "The rose?" he said. "The one your mother planted. Can this be it?"
He stopped beside a large moss rose bush as he spoke. It was of sturdy growth, completely covered with buds and blossoms of satiny white deeply embowered in a soft greenery of moss.
"Yes; this is it, father," spoke Beatrice softly. "Uncle Henry had it tended carefully because he knew that you would wish it. Is it not beautiful? I think I love it best of all the roses." She bent over a cluster to inhale its fragrance as she finished speaking.
"It has grown," he said musingly. "It was so small. I should not have known it. I did not think to find so large a bush."
"You have been gone for years," she reminded him. "Have you forgotten, father? A small plant would have time to become a large shrub."
"True;" he said. "True." He broke a half blown bud from the bush and held it for a moment against his lips. "It was her favorite rose," he said, putting it in the buttonhole of his coat.
The gravity of his face softened into tenderness, and his eyes were misty as he leaned over the rose bush. Bee gazed at him longingly. The impulse of her heart was to go to him, slip her hand in his, or to nestle against him caressingly. Had she done so father and daughter must have drawn very close to each other, but something—perhaps delicacy, perhaps shyness, perhaps a certain awe in which she held him—restrained her. Presently he straightened up, turned away from the bush with a sigh, and walked on. Beatrice followed him silently, and the golden opportunity was gone.
"I am hatching the larvæ of the Thecla titus Fabricus from the eggs," he said as they left the garden a little later, "I wish to get the proper plants for them to feed upon."
"Then we must go to the woodland instead of the orchard," said Bee quickly. "You will need the leaves of the wild cherry, or the wild plum. I believe that the caterpillars of the Coral Hair-Streaks feed upon them."
"How do you know?" questioned her father in astonishment.
"I studied butterflies, father," explained the girl. "You know 'tis your specialty, and I wanted to be able to help you when you came home. I don't remember many of the technical names though," she added honestly. "That just happened to be one that I knew. See! there goes a Copper."
Every step through the clover displaced myriads of small butterflies with wings of some shade of coppery-red or orange. Dappled fritillaries and angle wings, blocked in red and black, often variegated by odd dashes and spots of burnished silver or peacock eyes, crowded about the spreading thistle blossoms, or perched contentedly upon the many flowered umbrels of the milkweed.
"Then that is how you knew about protective mimicry?" asked he, after commenting upon the butterfly pointed out by Bee.
"Yes." Beatrice laughed more gaily than she had for days as she noted his pleased expression. "He likes it because I studied them," she told herself gleefully.
"And that one passing yonder. The one with the zigzag flight, my daughter. That is a Skipper, is it not?"
Beatrice turned a look of surprise upon him.
"Why, father! that is a Swallowtail," she cried. "How could you make such a—" She broke into a laugh suddenly as she saw his eyes twinkle. "You were just trying to see if I knew," she cried.
"I'm afraid that I shall have to admit it," he said. "Have you any specimens?"
"A few, father. Some Swallowtails, some Brush-footed ones, a number of Blues, Coppers and Hair-streaks."
"Why! you are quite a lepidopterist," exclaimed Doctor Raymond. "And the eggs, the larvæ and the chrysalids; do you have them too?"
The girl hung her head.
"N-no; I know one has to have those things as well as the butterflies to study the science properly, but I have none. I think the butterflies are beautiful. Just like flying flowers!"
"Ah! you are like all amateurs, Beatrice." Doctor Raymond shook his head gravely. "They are taken by the beauty of the butterfly, and so confine themselves to the imago state entirely. Whereas, to know the insect thoroughly, one should study it from the egg through all its stages to the perfected form. But you are not alone in it, my daughter. There are many men of wealth who make collections of the butterfly, as they do of gems and other things. They, too, care only for the perfected insect. In your case, you are young, and may be taught the proper manner of study. I am glad that you are interested in such things. It will afford me great pleasure to continue your instruction in the subject this summer. That is, if you would like it?"
"Like it?" cried Beatrice, looking up at him with unfeigned delight. "I should love it."
"Then we will consider that matter settled," he said with approval. "Here are some wild cherry trees. Be careful, child! There are some wasps."
But Beatrice, intent upon making herself useful, rushed forward eagerly and began stripping off the leaves from the low hanging limbs.
"Do you want some of the twigs, father? There is a fine branch here filled with leaves."
"Yes; but let me cut it for you." Doctor Raymond drew out a clasp knife and started to open it.
"I can get it quite easily, thank you, father," said Bee, bending the bough which broke suddenly with a sharp snap, disturbing a wasp that had just settled comfortably on one of the twigs. With an angry buzz the insect darted at the girl's hand, and thrust its sting into the offending member.
"Oh!" she uttered, letting the branch fall and clasping her hand quickly.
"You are stung," cried Doctor Raymond. "Give me your hand. At once!"
He caught up some of the damp earth and clapped it on the wound, holding the mud in place.
"Does it hurt so much now?" he asked after a moment, binding his handkerchief closely about the hand.
Beatrice's eyes shone through her tears. He cared because she was hurt. A warm glow suffused her being, and nestled comfortingly about her heart. She looked up and smiled.
"Hurt?" she exclaimed. "Nonsense! what is an old yellow jacket but a bee gone into athletics!"
An expression of pleased surprise shot athwart her father's face and his chuckle gave way to a peal of laughter.
"That is neat, child," he said. "Very neat! I like your way of taking this. You have the true spirit of a naturalist who accepts such happenings as a matter of experience. Are you fearful or timid? Do you get frightened easily?"
"I am not afraid of creeping things," answered Beatrice thoughtfully. "I don't believe that I know about other things. There has never been much to try me. At least, there never was anything until I saw those burglars the other night. I was scared then."
"You saw those men?" ejaculated Doctor Raymond. "Where did you see them?"
"I forgot that you did not know, father."
"But I wish to know. Tell me all about it, Beatrice."
"It was the first night that I wore that horrid poultice for my complexion. I could not sleep, so I went down stairs to get a book from the library, and when I opened the door there were the two burglars putting the silver into a bag. I was so scared that I could not do anything but look at them. When they saw me they took me for a ghost and ran away. I did look scary, father; so, when I heard you coming, I hid under the couch because I did not want you to see me. When Aunt Fanny was left alone I came out and ran up to my room. Yes; I was frightened. I shook like a leaf after it was all over, and I was glad that you were going to be near me."
"I see, my daughter. There was reason for fear in that instance. Few girls would have done so well. I have not spoken of the matter before because I did not wish to alarm you, and I did not know that you knew of their visit. However, they will hardly bother us again as the authorities are keeping a sharp watch for them, and believe that they will soon have them in custody. I shall take that room next yours for mine permanently, I think. Perhaps you will feel a little safer to have me there, and there is no one on that side of the hall with you. Is it somewhat too remote for you? Come, child! It is time to get back and get some soda on that sting."
"These be the pretty genis of the flowers,Daintily fed with honey and pure dew."—Hood.
"These be the pretty genis of the flowers,Daintily fed with honey and pure dew."
—Hood.
The windows of the study were thrown wide to the breeze which came cool and fresh from the shrubberies laden with the odors of the garden. It was a cozy, old-fashioned room, plainly furnished, but with that most welcome adornment to lovers of letters—a multitude of books. A large, open fireplace, surmounted by a high mantel-piece, took up nearly the whole of one side of the room; before this was a writing table upon which were scattered books, pamphlets, letters, scraps of manuscript, blank paper, pens and inkstands; by no means primly arranged.
Three weeks had passed since Beatrice had taken her first walk with her father. That walk had been followed by others until now she accompanied him as a matter of course. Each day also she had gone to him for a time to study butterflies, and recently she had begun to help him catalogue his specimens. On this day father and daughter were in the study hard at work.
"There, child," remarked Doctor Raymond, laying aside his manuscript. "I think you have done enough for one day."
"I am not one bit tired," protested Bee eagerly. "I could work for hours yet."
"You are a delightful helper, Beatrice," commented he smilingly. "You are so willing and zealous; but for that very reason I must guard against your enthusiasm carrying you too far."
Beatrice flushed with gratification. It seemed to her that her father was really beginning to care for her. He had several times uttered words of commendation, and she knew that he was pleased with her application to study.
"If you wish you may go to the laboratory with me," continued her father. "There are several butterflies that should come out of their chrysalids today. You may be interested in seeing them. Then we will go for a walk."
"I should like to see them," cried Bee rising. "Are they rare specimens, father?"
"A few of them are. They are all European butterflies. The one specimen in all my collection that I prize the most highly is the pupa of the Teinopalpus imperialis—an Asiatic butterfly. It is found in the forests of Sikkin, and also in Central China, but is very rare. In fact, if this one of mine comes out all right it will be the only one of its kind in any collection. I have retarded the development of the chrysalis by cold until the present time. It is a magnificent butterfly, and I am anxiously waiting its coming out. Then there will be something to see, Beatrice. Still, while not so rare, these will be quite interesting, so we will go to see them."
The laboratory which joined the study was a large room with glass on two sides, fitted out with both a heating apparatus and a refrigerating process. Cabinets with glass-covered drawers filled with butterflies in all stages of development, from the egg to the perfect insect, lined one side of the apartment. Another side was fitted with shelves which were filled with drying ovens, breeding cages, field boxes, poison jars, setting boards, and all the paraphernalia of a naturalist. Twigs, branches of trees and leaves jutted out from artificial crevices on some of which innumerable caterpillars were feeding; on others the chrysalids had already formed, and hung awaiting the moment when they should be released from their sleep.
It was not a room that many girls would enjoy, but to Beatrice Raymond it was filled with charm. She was truly interested in the marvel of the evolution of the butterfly, and through that interest had overcome her natural repugnance to the caterpillar from which it came. Added to this was the growing delight in her father's society. It is doubtful if Doctor Raymond knew how much his daughter loved him, or if he returned her affection in like degree. He was much absorbed in his work, and had been without her for so many years that it was hardly to be expected that among so many interests she would be first. He did, however, delight in the girl's quick comprehension and her devotion to study. Then, too, Beatrice saw that he turned to her more and more for help in his work, and that he seemed to enjoy talking to her of his plans, and she was content, believing truly that all this would lead to a deep and abiding affection.
As they entered the laboratory several butterflies rose from some twigs, circled about the room and settled upon the portion of glass where the sun shone brightest.
"What children of the sun they are!" exclaimed the scientist, his face lighting up with enthusiasm.
"Oh, father," cried Bee. "Here is a drop of blood. Could one of the pretty things have hurt itself?"
"No, child; some lepidopterous insects always leave a drop of red fluid when emerging from the pupa state. This is especially true of the Vanessa urtica. Have you ever read of red rain, or the showers of blood of antiquity?"
"Yes;" answered Beatrice, eager to show her knowledge. "Professor Lawrence told us about it. He read some lines from Ovid, too. Let me see. I know:
"'With threatening signs the lowering skies were filledAnd sanguine drops from murky clouds distilled.'
"'With threatening signs the lowering skies were filledAnd sanguine drops from murky clouds distilled.'
"He said that Ovid referred to the shower of blood."
"Here you have the explanation of that phenomenon, Beatrice. It used to be regarded as a prodigy that portended all sorts of evil, and whenever it occurred people were alarmed, and referred all disasters to its coming. It remained for the French philosopher, Peiresc, to give the first satisfactory explanation of the phenomenon.
"In July, 1608, an extensive shower of blood took place at Aix in France, which threw the people of that city into the utmost consternation. Great drops of blood were plainly to be seen in the city itself, upon the walls of the church yard, upon the city walls, and also upon the walls of villages and hamlets for several miles around. Naturalists said that this kind of rain was due to vapor drawn up out of red earth which congealing, fell afterward in this form. This explanation did not suit Peiresc, because he knew that such as are drawn aloft by heat ascend without color; as for example—red roses, the vapors of which are congealed into transparent water.
"In the meanwhile an accident happened that showed him the true cause of the occurrence. Six months before he had shut up in a box a certain worm, called palmer, which was nothing but a hairy caterpillar given the name of palmer because it wandered everywhere. This one was unusually large and of rare form. He had forgotten it, but one day, hearing a buzzing in the box, he opened it, and found the worm turned into a beautiful butterfly which presently flew away, leaving in the bottom of the box a large, red drop. At the same time of the month that this occurred an incredible number of butterflies were observed flying in the air. He was therefore of the opinion that such kind of butterflies resting upon the walls had there shed such drops of the same size and bigness. Upon investigation he found that these drops were not found upon housetops, nor upon round sides of stones which stuck out as would have been the case if blood had fallen from the sky, but rather where the stones were somewhat hollowed, and in holes where such small creatures might shroud and nestle themselves. Moreover, the walls which were spotted were not in the middle of towns, but such as bordered upon the fields. Nor were they upon the highest places, but only upon those of such moderate height as butterflies are wont to fly.
"After this whenever an event of this nature occurred scientists would find that it always happened when the Vanessa urtica, or the Vanessa polychloros species of butterfly were uncommonly plentiful in that particular district where the phenomenon was observed."
"Why, how strange that is, father."
"Yes, it is rather remarkable; but many of the so-called prodigies of ancient times are explainable through natural causes. In France, during the thirteenth century, one of these rains occurred, and the people, believing that evil could be averted in no other way, slew ten thousand hapless Jews."
"And all because of a little butterfly," observed Bee musingly.
"Yes; all because of a little insect that Moore calls 'winged flowers,' or 'flying gems.'"
"How pretty!" cried Bee. "And they are like flowers, aren't they?"
"Well, they are certainly like them in that each kind has its own season for appearing in perfect bloom; and thus they decorate the landscape. Now let us go for our walk. When I return I must chloroform these specimens. They are rather fine."
"Do let the lovely things go until tomorrow," pleaded the girl. "Surely, they should have a little while of life."
"There speaks the woman, Beatrice. That is the reason that there are so few naturalists among the sex. Yet I would not have it otherwise. Yes; they may have life until tomorrow since you wish it. Theirs is but a brief span at best. Come, get your hat, my daughter! You have been in the house too long today."
"Out in the open country fields,With the green grass blowing merrily,The daisies nod and the dewdrop shine,And the sunbeams dance right cheerily."A lassie and laddie come tripping along,Like the fair day smiling brightly;They pluck the flowers and they hum a songAs they shake off the dewdrops lightly."—Mary Aimee Goodman.
"Out in the open country fields,With the green grass blowing merrily,The daisies nod and the dewdrop shine,And the sunbeams dance right cheerily.
"A lassie and laddie come tripping along,Like the fair day smiling brightly;They pluck the flowers and they hum a songAs they shake off the dewdrops lightly."
—Mary Aimee Goodman.
"Beatrice, do you see that butterfly on the verbena bed?" asked Doctor Raymond one bright morning in July, as he and his daughter sat at work in the study.
Beatrice glanced through the open window to the bed of verbenas, over which hovered a large butterfly.
"It is beautiful!" she exclaimed looking with delight at the insect's broad expanse of wing. "Wouldn't you call that an orange-red, father? And see the white spots on the secondaries. What kind is it?"
"The Anosia Plexippus," answered her father. "You know it better perhaps as The Monarch, or Milkweed Butterfly. It is a magnificent specimen. I must have it for my collection. Where is my net, child?"
"Let me capture it for you, father," cried Beatrice, catching up her net hastily. "I'll have it in a jiffy."
"Be careful not to bruise it, Beatrice," cautioned the scientist as she vaulted lightly through the window.
The insect still hovered over the verbena blossoms, but as the girl drew near it rose and sailed away. Doctor Raymond gave an amused laugh at her discomfiture.
"Never you mind," cried Bee. "I'll get it yet. See if I don't;" and away she sped in hot pursuit.
"It has extraordinary powers of flight; so, if it lands you anywhere near the postoffice, just see if there is any mail," called her father teasingly.
Across the garden, through the grove, over the hedge and out into the road the butterfly flew with Beatrice following after.
"I just believe that it heard father," ejaculated she, as the coveted insect winged its way in the direction of town. "I don't care, I'll follow it, anyway."
The naturalist and his daughter in pursuit of insects had become a common sight to the people of Louisiana, and so the bareheaded, flushed maiden in breathless pursuit of a beautiful butterfly caused only a few persons to look after her curiously. Onward went the butterfly. Just as the town was reached it began to rise in its flight, and Beatrice realized that it was her last chance, for it would soon be lost over the housetops. She made an upward leap, and by a fortunate sweep of the net succeeded in capturing the prize.
"Bravo!" exclaimed a voice, and she looked around in some confusion to discover a boy gazing at her with admiring eyes. "I think that's pretty good for a girl."
"Oh! indeed!" cried Bee heatedly. "Could you have done any better yourself, even though you are a boy?"
"I don't know," replied the lad coolly. "I never wanted a butterfly bad enough to try it."
"I don't believe that you ever even chased one in your life," said the girl, staring at him scornfully. "You look a namby-pamby sort."
The boy's face flushed. He was all of thirteen years old, but despite the fact was garbed in black velvet knickerbockers, a ruffled white blouse, long black stockings with low, ribbon-tied shoes, and had a silken sash knotted about his waist. Worst of all, to the girl's mind, he wore his hair in curls which fell far down upon his shoulders.
"If you were a boy I'd fight you for that," cried the urchin angrily, clenching his fists.
"Pooh!" sniffed Bee, turning up her nose. "I would not be afraid of such a baby if I were six times a boy. Where's your mother?"
"She's home, asleep. What's yours thinking about that she lets you go wild like this? My mother said, when she saw you running through the fields one day, that she wondered what kind of a woman she could be to let you go like that. Where is she?"
"She is dead," answered the girl in a low voice. "I think your mother is horrid."
"She isn't. She's lovely. Everybody says so. I am sorry that yours is dead. You can't help being rude, of course, if you have no mother. Who looks after you?"
"Why, father, of course," answered Bee. "And I am not rude."
"What makes you run after butterflies and things, then?" demanded he sternly. "I saw you one day, and you had a worm—a great, ugly worm—in your hand."
Beatrice gave way to a burst of laughter.
"A worm?" cried she mirthfully. "Oh, you poor little thing! You don't know anything, do you? That was not a worm. It was a caterpillar."
"Well; what's the difference?"
"A true worm never turns into an insect," she informed him. "It goes creeping around through life, a worm and nothing more; while a caterpillar changes at last into a beautiful butterfly, or moth. This was a caterpillar once," she ended, raising the net with her captured prize for his inspection.
"You are a strange girl," observed the boy. "I never knew one before who cared about such things. Where did you learn it?"
"I get it from my father," responded she with pride. "He is Doctor William Raymond, a noted lepidopterist. He has been all over the world just to study butterflies. What does your father do?"
"Haven't got any." The boy thrust his hands into his pockets, and stared at her cheerfully.
"Haven't you? I am so sorry. It must be dreadful to be without a father," spoke Bee with genuine commiseration.
"Oh, I don't know. I guess from what I've heard that they are pretty much of a nuisance. You see they always want to handle the cash, and my mother and I would rather keep that in our own hands."
"I don't care to talk with you any longer," remarked Bee, turning away from him. "You say such awful things. My father isn't a nuisance, whatever yours may have been."
"Say! I didn't mean your father. I don't know anything about him. He may be all right. I never knew a father who was a lepi—what do you call 'em? They may be different. Does he let you have the money?"
"Of course not," answered Bee indignantly. "He gives me an allowance that I can spend as I please."
"That's all right. I think that is the proper thing," declared the lad, anxious to propitiate her. "It wouldn't do for me, you know, because I'm a man."
"A pretty poor sort of one," flashed the girl. She started to go back into the road, intending to go on to the postoffice, when the boy called imploringly:
"Don't go yet. I like you even if you do catch butterflies and worms. Come over and see me; won't you?
"I don't visit boys," loftily. "Besides, I don't know where you live."
"We live in the big white house just beyond you," he told her in an injured tone. "You people are so inhospitable. I thought Missouri folks were nice to strangers. My mother feels bad about it. We have been here a whole month, and you haven't even noticed that we lived next to you."
"We have not been home very long ourselves," explained Bee, touched by the allusion to Missouri. "You see, my father has been away from me for a long, long time, and we have been so busy getting acquainted with each other that we have not paid much attention to other people. Perhaps we will come over to see you. I'll ask him. I must go on now; so, good-bye."
"I'll just go along with you," said the boy, swinging into step by her side. "You see my pony lost a shoe, and I had to wait for him to be shod, so I walked out here a ways when I saw you coming. I'll just take you back in my cart. It is a long, hot walk."
"Will you?" asked Bee gratefully. It was a long distance, and after the chase the butterfly had given her she was glad of the offer. "It is very kind of you."
"Oh, that's all right," he said in an offhand manner. "I like to be obliging to my friends; and we are going to be friends, you know."
"Are we?" asked Bee, laughing outright. "Why, how do you know that you will care to be after you know me?"
"We've got to be," he replied. "We live next to each other, and it would be so convenient. I made up my mind that we'd be friends when I first saw you."
"But you said that I was rude," reminded Bee. "I shouldn't think that you would want to be friends with a rude girl."
"You said a few things, too," he retorted, laughing. "Are you going in here?" as Bee stopped before the postoffice. "Then I'll bring the cart here. Be sure you wait."
He scampered away, and Bee entered the office. There was a letter for her father, and the girl congratulated herself that the offer of the ride would enable her to get it to him quickly. She was anxious, too, to show him that she had succeeded with the butterfly. She had not long to wait until her new-found acquaintance appeared with his pony and cart.
"This is not really my pony," the boy told her as he assisted her into the cart. "The cart is mine, but my mother just hired the pony until she could find one to suit. Though this one is pretty nice."
"Indeed it is," remarked Beatrice approvingly, as the little pony started off at a brisk pace. "Why don't you get this one?"
"They won't sell," said the boy. "I can have it until the fellow to whom it belongs comes home. He's away now."
"I see," said she. And thus chatting she soon reached home. "I thank you very, very much," she said as she jumped out. "I do hope that we shall be friends."
"And you didn't ask my name," reproached the urchin. "No; I shan't tell you now. If you want to know, just come over. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye," she called after him. "I certainly shall come over to find out. I want to know."
"So your chase led you to the office after all," laughed her father as she ran into the study, taking the net and the letter from her at the same time. "I had no idea that you would catch it. You have done well, though I am sorry that you had such a long, hot, dusty walk."
"I did not walk back, father. We have a new neighbor in the white house, and the boy brought me home in his pony cart." Bee sank into a chair and began to fan herself, watching him as he carefully removed the butterfly from the bag, and placed it in the poison jar. "Isn't it a beauty?"
"Yes;" replied Doctor Raymond, beginning the perusal of his letter. He looked up suddenly. "Beatrice, I shall be obliged to leave you for a few days. They wish to see me at the university. Would you rather go to your Aunt Annie's than to stay here?"
"I would rather stay here, father," she answered promptly. "There is so much to do."
"Just as you wish, my child. I'll ask Mrs. Jenkins to come over to be with you nights. Then with the servants here I shall not be uneasy. Don't do any cataloguing while I am away. A few days rest will do you good. Now I must throw a few things into my grip if I expect to catch the afternoon train. It is fortunate that you went for the mail."
"Let me pack your things for you, father," pleaded Bee. "I know exactly what you will need. Aunt Annie says that I do nicely. I always did it for her, and for Uncle Henry, too, sometimes."
"Very well, Beatrice. I have done those things so long for myself that it will seem strange to have it done for me; but it will be none the less pleasant for all that." And there was a very kindly light in the look which he gave his daughter as she left the room.
"By the sweet power of music: therefore, the poetDid feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods:Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage,But music for the time doth change his nature."—Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare.
"By the sweet power of music: therefore, the poetDid feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods:Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage,But music for the time doth change his nature."
—Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare.
Lonely and distrait Bee wandered about the house the next day unable to settle down to anything.
"What if father should go away again for ten years," she thought with sudden dismay. "I don't believe that I could live. I could not stand it without him now. What if he should!"
Troubled by this thought she sat down on the veranda steps, and leaned listlessly against a post. For some time she sat there musing, but presently was aroused from her meditations by the sound of music. Bee raised her head and listened intently.
"I have heard that several times of late," she said, glad of the diversion. "I wonder where it comes from? I am going to find out."
She rose, listened again to catch the strain, then began to walk in the direction from whence it came. Through the garden and orchard, across the fields to the arbor vitæ hedge which separated their land from their neighbor's she went, the music becoming more and more distinct. Beethoven's Romance in G was being played, although Bee did not know what it was, and the musician was executing it with wonderful technique.
Always susceptible to the influence of music the girl stood spellbound. Presently the performance stopped abruptly, and a sweet voice—sweet despite a certain querulous note in it—said sharply:
"Percival, that last was entirely too fast. What would Heinrich say to you?"
"I don't give a cent what he'd say," retorted a boyish voice petulantly. "I'm tired of practicing. I want to have some fun. I guess I'm a boy as well as a violinist."
"Don't be silly, Percival. Of course you are. Now practice just one hour more, and we will see about that pony this afternoon."
"You said that yesterday," returned the boy's voice sulkily, "but you didn't do a thing about it."
"I will today, dear, sure. I was too tired yesterday."
"Honor bright?"
"Yes; honor bright."
"All right. If you don't attend to it today I won't touch this old violin again this summer. So there!"
Beatrice was an unwilling listener to the foregoing dialogue. Not wishing that her presence should be unknown, and curious as to the identity of the musician, she drew aside some branches of the arbor vitæ hedge, and looked through.
The boy of the knickerbockers and long curls stood under a large tree, his chin resting upon a violin which he held in his left hand, while with his right he tapped restlessly upon his shoe with the bow. A rack upon which were some sheets of music stood before him.
"Oh!" exclaimed Bee in surprise as she saw who the musician was.
The lad heard her and ran to the opening eagerly.
"It's the funny girl!" he called joyfully. "Mamma, see! It's the butterfly girl. Come on, Butterfly; come on over."
"May I?" asked Beatrice, turning to his mother. "I would like to hear the little boy play."
"By all means," said the lady graciously. "Percival does better when he has an audience. Are you Doctor Raymond's daughter?"
"Yes;" answered Beatrice, availing herself of the permission to enter the garden. "I am Beatrice Raymond."
"Percival said that he had met you," continued the lady. "He has been watching you for some weeks, and wishing that he could make your acquaintance."
"Why don't you tell her our names?" broke in the boy excitedly. "That's what she has come for. I told her yesterday that she would have to come over to find out, and she can't know us unless we tell her what to call us. I am Percival Medulla, and this is Mrs. Medulla. 'Course that isn't our real name, but when you're before the public you have to be called something high sounding."
"Percival!" cried his mother, provoked.
"Isn't it true?" demanded Percival in matter of fact tones.
"The truth when it refers to private matters is not always to be spoken," reproved Mrs. Medulla. "Miss Beatrice, (she pronounced Bee's name after the Italian manner), he is to play one hour longer. I know that I can depend upon you to keep him at his task. You show that you are trustworthy. Percival, be very nice to your friend," and she swept into the house.
So, much to the girl's wonder, she was left as mentor to the boy musician. He looked at her quizzically as he saw her dismay, and began to laugh.
"I am glad that she is gone," he remarked. "I want to have you all to myself."
"Hush, hush!" implored Beatrice, shocked. "You must not speak of your mother that way."
"Mustn't one? Not even when she bores one?"
"No; no, indeed!" replied the girl earnestly. "Now do practice. There's a good little boy!"
"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.
"Fifteen. Why?"
"Well, don't you call me little boy any more. I am thirteen."
"You don't look it," remarked Bee with a critical glance at him. "I thought you were not more than ten. Your—"
"Yes; my clothes," interrupted he, frowning darkly. "I just hate them!"
"What makes you wear them then?" asked she, surprised.
"Because I am an Infant Prodigy. Grown people think that I am more of a genius if I dress like a silly. If I wore clothes like a decent boy they wouldn't come to hear me play. So I have to wear these things—" with a gesture of disgust. "I've worn them for ages and ages. I suppose that I'll die wearing them, and being an Infant Prodigy. And these curls! Do you think a real fellow likes to go around like a girl? Well, I guess not. Whenever old Heinrich, he's my tutor, says: 'We must have a new Fauntleroy suit for de boy, madam,' I just wish Fauntleroy had never been born."
"But he wasn't," spoke Bee. "He's just a character in a book, Percival."
"'Mounts to the same thing," answered Percival, "if I have to dress like him. But just you wait. When I'm a little older, you'll see. Your hair looks funny too," turning the subject suddenly. "What makes it so dark at the roots, and so yellow everywhere else? Did you bleach it?"
"Yes;" said Bee humbly, her face flushing. "You see I have a cousin who is very beautiful, and I wished to look like her, so I had my hair bleached. I am sorry that I did it now, and I am letting it grow out. Just as soon as it gets long enough to look well, I will have the yellow part cut off. Now do play, or your mother will be sorry that I came."
"Oh, she knows that I will play an hour longer," said the Prodigy easily, adjusting his violin. "I told her that I would, and I always do what I say I will."
Beatrice made no reply, and the lad began to play some snatches of march music which grew wilder and more barbarous, changing at last to a wild mad waltz of wonderful rhythm. He was indeed a prodigy. His tone was marvelously pure, his technique fluent and delicate. He touched the secret feelings of the heart, and brought into play all the emotions. The girl paled under the influence, and listened in rapturous silence. Presently the boy stopped, turned toward her expectantly, and drew himself up in a stiff, martial attitude. Beatrice gazed at him in wonderment, her breath coming quickly through her parted lips.
"Well?" he said impatiently. "Hurry up, and let's have it over with."
"Hurry up?" echoed Bee, rousing herself. "Hurry up what?"
"The kissing, of course. Get it over with quick! I want to go on playing. I'm in the mood."
"Go on playing then," cried Bee, a thread of indignation in her tone. "I'm not going to kiss you."
"You're not?" The boy stared at her incredulously. "Why, you're a girl! They all do it."
"Nonsense! I don't kiss boys."
"Not even if they are Infant Prodigies?"
"No; not even then," she returned. "I never heard of anything so absurd in my life."
"You haven't, eh? Let me tell you that I have. Wait! you'll be as bad as the rest of them."
He began to play again, watching her with curious half-shut eyes to note the effect. Nocturnes, obligatos, and finally the wonderful music of Chopin, followed in quick succession. The girl did not move, but sat like one entranced. All at once he paused, and bent toward her with an inviting smile.
"Now," he said in a winsome voice.
Bee did not stir, but gazed at him uncomprehendingly, too much absorbed to realize what he meant.
"Now," he repeated commandingly.
The girl roused herself.
"Oh," she breathed. "Are you going to stop? I think the angels must play like that!"
With an angry motion the lad thrust his bow into his left hand, and held out his right toward her.
"See that hand?" he demanded. Bee looked at it in perplexity.
"Yes; why?"
"That's the hand that made that music."
"Yes, I know," she answered gently. "It's ever so much smaller than mine, and whiter too." She held out her own slim brown hand and compared the two.
"Aren't they little bits of fingers?" went on the Prodigy. "Who would think that such little things could make such divine music? See the dimples at the knuckles! Aren't they dear?"
"Don't," cried Bee in disgust. "I was entranced with the music, and now you are spoiling it all by saying such foolish things."
"And don't you intend to kiss that hand?" ejaculated Percival in astonishment.
"Of course not," answered Bee, rising. "I must go, Percival. Your playing is marvelous, and I do hope that you will let me listen to you again. Come over and see me. And I want you to meet my father. I wish you would play for him."
"Well, you are a funny girl! If I had played like that before an audience, the women and girls would have smothered me with kisses."
"I shouldn't think you would like it," exclaimed Bee.
"I wouldn't mind you," spoke Percival. "I wonder if it is because of the butterflies that you are so different? Never mind! I'll fetch you yet. See if I don't."
"Good-bye," called Bee with a laugh, and darted through the opening in the hedge.