"Some of these days the skies will be brighter,Some of these days the burdens be lighter;Hearts will be happier, souls will be whiter,Some of these days,Some of these days."—Frank L. Stanton.
"Some of these days the skies will be brighter,Some of these days the burdens be lighter;Hearts will be happier, souls will be whiter,Some of these days,Some of these days."
—Frank L. Stanton.
"There, Beatrice, that will do for today." Doctor Raymond laid aside his manuscript with a sigh of satisfaction. "The Purple Emperor is a fitting close for our day's work. I think there is no place in Natural History where rank is of so much importance as among butterflies. His Majesty is easily king of the lot."
He picked up the Denton frame in which the insect was mounted, and looked at it smilingly.
"I never see the Emperor," he continued reflectively, "that I do not think of Peter Pindar's Ode to The Emperor of Morocco and Sir Joseph Banks. Of course it is a hit at scientists, but it is amusing for all that. Have either of you read it?"
"Yes;" spoke Bee eagerly. "At least, I have heard it read, father. Professor Lawrence read it to the class one day."
Doctor Raymond frowned. Bee had not yet learned that there are occasions when ignorance is bliss. No one likes to have either his anecdotes or witticisms anticipated. She might have said with perfect sincerity:
"Yes, father; but I should like to hear it again."
"Well, I haven't heard it at all," said Adele prettily. "I am not so learned as Bee."
"You will doubtless appreciate it then," spoke the naturalist, turning to her with pleasure apparent in both voice and manner. "Would you care to hear the lines?"
"Nothing would delight me so much, Uncle William."
How beautiful Adele looked with her golden hair; how delicate and pearly was her lovely neck; what sweet eyes were hers, blue as a sky full of sunshine. Doctor Raymond's glance dwelt upon her with admiration.
"What a lovely girl you are!" he exclaimed voluntarily. Adele colored with pleasure.
"I did not think that you saw beauty in anything but your butterflies," she said archly.
"Indeed I do. I am very susceptible to beauty in any form. But surely you also see beauty in this?" He handed her a frame in which was mounted a gorgeous Scarlet Admiral. "Is not this strikingly beautiful? Note with what a brilliant red the secondaries are bordered, and the velvety blackness of the fore wings. It is among the last of our hibernating butterflies to seek its winter quarters, and is most interesting in many ways."
"It is beautiful," cried Adele with enthusiasm. "Oh! it just makes me want to study butterflies too when I see such pretty ones."
"I do not wonder that the old Greeks used the butterfly as an emblem of the soul," commented the Lepidopterist, well pleased with her appreciation of the insect. "Even as the imago bursts from its chrysalis and, throwing aside the bonds that held it a lowly creeping thing to earth, mounts upward on gauzy wings, so the soul casts off its earth-bound body at length and also mounts upward on wings of hope. The symbol of the butterfly is found on all their tombs and monuments."
"It is a pretty thought," commented his niece sweetly, "but you don't know how anxious I am to hear about Sir Joseph Banks and The Emperor."
"To be sure," ejaculated Doctor Raymond hastily. "I had forgotten." Then, in a rich voice of no little charm, he recited the ode. Adele laughed merrily as he finished.
"How can you bear to repeat anything like that when it is a take-off on scientists?" she asked.
"We can appreciate humor even when it is at our expense, child. Now let's go to lunch. You girls may then visit Rachel while I go into the town. I must look after some matters of Henry's. I will join you as you leave the woods coming back from Rachel's. On our way home we will call upon our new neighbors. I am curious about that prodigy of whom Beatrice was speaking. Then, too, I wish to see if they will be pleasant acquaintances for you. If they are it would not be so lonesome for you girls should I be called from home, as it sometimes happens that I am."
Bee sighed as they went to the dining room. He spoke exactly as though Adele was always to be with them. She had felt a little out of things that morning, and perhaps her manner held the slightest tinge of asperity. Adele ran at once to the head of the table.
"I want to pour the coffee today, Bee," she cried, her white hands fluttering among the cups like flower petals.
"No;" spoke Bee emphatically, pushing her to one side. "That ismyduty, Adele."
"Beatrice," exclaimed her father, "I am surprised. What difference does it make? If your cousin wishes to pour the coffee, let her do so. Remember, she is your guest." So he spoke, for no man ever understands all that serving at her own table means to a woman, or girl child.
"I do remember, father. She is the one who forgets. As hostess this is my place, and I will not give it up to any one."
"'Will not' are strong words, my daughter. What if I were to command you?"
"Then I should have to obey you, father." The girl found herself trembling with anger. "But you, sir, would be forgetting what was due to your daughter."
"You are impertinent, Beatrice," he remarked coldly. "There are times when your manner leaves much to be desired."
"I would just as soon sit here, Uncle William," broke in Adele. "It was just a notion of mine. I didn't dream that Bee would care. It does not matter in the least."
"Thank you, my dear." The doctor's eyes softened. He was displeased that his daughter should exhibit such outbursts of temper, as she occasionally gave way to, and his formality toward her during the meal made his disapprobation quite apparent.
Bee was aware that she had placed herself in the wrong by losing her temper, and her hands shook so that she could scarcely hold the cups.
"Oh, I wish I didn't act this way," she thought remorsefully. "It is so hard to do the right thing when he shows his preference so plainly. Why couldn't I have been nicer about this? It really is my place to sit here, but I might have said so without getting mad. Oh, dear, dear!"
The lunch ended, and the girls went upstairs to get ready for the outing. When Bee was nearly dressed Adele came to her softly. She could not bear that anyone should not be pleased with her, and she knew that Bee was hurt and offended. Stepping behind her she put her arms around her waist as Bee stood before the mirror, and bent her head over her cousin's shoulder, partly that she might kiss her cheek, partly also that she might see her face in the glass and contrast it with that of Bee.
"Don't be cross with me," she said coaxingly. "I am sorry if I have done anything that you did not like."
Beatrice sighed. Adele was irresistible in this mood.
"Perhaps you did not mean it, Adele," she said. "But, honestly! would you like it if someone were to come to your house, and want to take your place with your father and mother?"
"No, I would not," answered Adele candidly. "What's the use of supposing anything of the sort? Nobody could, you know. Papa and mamma would not let them."
"That is true," agreed Bee thoughtfully. "Nobody could take your place, Adele. I wish that father were so fond of me that no one could take my place with him."
"Maybe he will when he knows you better," remarked Adele consolingly. "Only you must not blame me if he likes me best." She loosened her hold on Bee and wandered about the room, looking first at one thing, and then another. Presently she gave a little scream of delight. "What a pretty hat!" she cried. "All white lace and pansies. Oh, Bee! Where did you get it?"
"I got it when I bleached my hair," said Bee in a low tone. "It is a pretty hat. Every one likes it."
"It's lovely," declared Adele, putting it on, and gazing rapturously at her image in the glass. "Doesn't it become me?"
"Everything becomes you, Adele, but this doesn't look any better on you than your own." Bee reached out her hand for the hat. "We must hurry. Father doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Do let me wear it, Bee." Adele danced out of her cousin's reach. "Just see how nice it looks on me."
"I want to wear it myself, Adele. I want to look well when we go to Mrs. Medulla's."
"Don't be so selfish, Bee. You used not to be. You used to let me wear anything of yours that I wanted. What in the world has come to you? It doesn't make any difference what you wear."
"I don't think it's selfish for me to want to wear my own things," answered Bee with tears in her eyes. "You are not contented to let me keep anything. You have just as many pretty things as I have; yet you always want mine too."
"You are so superior to such things," remarked Adele, her lip quivering, her face wearing the tiniest aggrieved expression. "Nobody thinks of what you have on, but a poor little goosey like me has to be so careful. I won't wear the hat, if you don't want me to; but I think you might let me. You are getting awfully selfish."
Bee turned from her quickly and looked out of the window. Was she selfish? It was true that formerly she had not minded letting Adele wear her things. Why should she care now? A remembrance of Mrs. Medulla's words came to her: "A winsome and lovable personality is worth all the beauty in the world." After all, why should she permit a mere hat to upset her temper, and spoil her afternoon?
"You may wear it, Adele," she said. "It does become you."
"You're a dear!" Adele ran to the glass to pin on the hat securely. "What does a clever thing like you care about what you wear? You have a mind above clothes."
"Yes; I dare say," remarked Bee abstractedly. "Are you ready to go down now?"
Doctor Raymond was waiting for them, and they set forth. The air under the great trees that bordered the road was balmy. The hot July sun brought out the cool sweet smell of the leaves. Gleams of fire fell through the boughs and dappled the soil at intervals. On these sunflakes numerous fritillary butterflies with silver under wings were fluttering, and countless flies were humming. Presently Adele darted aside with an exclamation.
"It's a dead butterfly," she cried, holding the insect up to view. "It was sitting so still on the thistle that I thought it was asleep. And the poor little thing was dead all the time."
"It's shamming," said Doctor Raymond with a laugh. "That is one of the tricks of The Painted Beauty. If we leave it alone for a few seconds we shall find that it will come to life again."
He took the creature from her and laid it gently on the grass. They waited, watching it curiously. All at once the apparently lifeless butterfly began a slight vibration of its wings. Suddenly it rose and was gone; as strong and free as ever.
Adele clapped her hands in delight, and Bee smiled. She was acquainted with the butterfly, and had seen the trick before.
"I never saw anything so cunning in all my life," cried Adele. "Are all butterflies as cute, Uncle William?"
"Not all; but the most of them have marvelous life histories. Come, girls! we must not loiter. We have two calls to make, you know."
"A thousand flowers,By the road-side and the borders of the brook,Nod gayly to each other; glossy leavesAre twinkling in the sun, as if the dewWere on them yet, and silver waters breakInto small waves and sparkle as he comes."—Summer Wind. Bryant.
"A thousand flowers,By the road-side and the borders of the brook,Nod gayly to each other; glossy leavesAre twinkling in the sun, as if the dewWere on them yet, and silver waters breakInto small waves and sparkle as he comes."
—Summer Wind. Bryant.
"Thanky, honies, yer moughty good ter an ole worman. Thanky kindly." Old Rachel beamed upon the two girls from the depths of a rocker, her black face shining with delight at sight of all the good things they had brought.
"Have you been sick long, Aunt Rachel?" asked Bee, putting jelly, chicken, and other delicacies upon the only table the cabin afforded.
"Bress ye, chile! I ain't what yer call sick. Jest a-ailin' like. Dat's all. I went ter my son's in Possum Holler fer a spell, an' I ain't been right peart sence. But I'll be as spry as eber purty soon."
"Well, we will look after you until you are," spoke the girl gently.
"Yes, honey. I'll 'pend on you all ter look aftha me. I was moughty good ter yer ma. She'd 'prove of yer lookin' aftah ole Rachel. 'Deed she would." The old woman kept her eyes fixed on Adele as she talked. "Is yer a fairy, er an angel, honey?" she asked.
"Neither," Adele laughed gaily. "I am just a common, everyday girl, Aunt Rachel."
"No, honey. 'Scuse me. No common ebbery day ga lain't a-gwinge ter look like yer. Does dey, Miss Bee?"
"No, indeed," answered Beatrice. "Now Aunt Rachel, I'll bring or send you something every day, and father said to tell you that he was going to have the doctor look in on you."
"Now ain't dat jest like yer pa? He don't fergit dat I was wid Mis' Raymond in her las' sickness. Tell him I'm much obleeged ter him. He was moughty fond ob yer ma; yer pa was, an' she was ob him too. Put a flower ebbery day on his table when he'd go in ter study."
"Why, Aunt Rachel, you never told me that before," cried Bee.
"Didn't I? I fergit things, Miss Bee. She did dough. Yas'm. Sometime hit 'ud be a rose, sometime a pansy; but allers a posy ob some kind 'ud go on dat man's table ebbery mo'nin'. You kummin' ebbery day, Miss Bee?"
"Yes, Aunt Rachel."
"Den you kum too, honey." The negress appealed to Adele. "Lawsie, chile, yer jest a sight for soah eyes. You am suah. Hit does me good jest ter look at yer. You am de Lily ob de Valley, an' de Rose ob Sharon. You suah am."
"Yes, yes, I'll come." Adele received this homage with laughing protest, but she was none the less pleased because it was homely.
"Hit suahly will do me moah good dan de vittles," went on the negress. "An' I ain't a-sayin' nuffin agin good eatin' eider."
"I'll come," promised Adele again. "I'll come every day."
"Bress yer heart, chile. Thanky, Miss Bee."
"Good-bye until tomorrow," said Beatrice kindly. "Be careful of yourself, and if you need anything send to the house for it. We will come to see how you are tomorrow."
"I won't need nuffin elsen but a sight ob dat bressed angel," declared old Rachel as the girls bade her good-bye, and left the cabin.
Through the woods they went to the road where they found Doctor Raymond waiting for them, and they started for the visit to Mrs. Medulla.
"How is old Rachel?" he asked.
"I did not think her very ill," remarked Adele. "Did you, Bee?"
"She said that she was just ailing," replied
Bee, "and that she would be all right in a few days. I thought she was a little feverish. She took quite a fancy to Adele."
"I can well believe it," answered Doctor Raymond heartily. Each time he saw the girl she seemed more lovely. Today in her white dress with Bee's white lace hat upon her head, and her eyes velvety as the heart of a purple pansy she looked the angel Aunt Rachel had called her.
"I wonder," thought Bee as they entered the gate of the Brawley place where the Medullas lived, "I wonder if Percival and his mother will be as much taken with Adele as every one else is?"
"Your daughter and I are friends already, Doctor Raymond," said Mrs. Medulla, drawing Bee to her as she greeted them graciously.
"I am glad to hear it," observed the scientist courteously. "My daughter is so unfortunate as to be obliged to devote a great part of her time to me, and I have been away from civilization so long that I am scarcely the companion for her. The influence of a woman of culture cannot fail to be of great benefit to her."
"Thank you," replied the lady quietly. "And is this the cousin of whom you have spoken, Beatrice?"
"Yes;" answered Bee, watching her intently to see if she too had fallen a victim to Adele's beauty. The lady smiled at the girl's fixed gaze, cognizant of what was passing in her mind. She was too well bred to betray the astonishment she felt at Adele's wondrous loveliness, and she was filled with a great commiseration for Beatrice.
Adele was at her best. She knew that she was beautiful, and accepted homage as her right. She had grown to expect admiration and devotion as her due. So she chatted brightly, or listened with pretty deference whenever one of her elders spoke.
She knew that her uncle admired her. That he did so beyond his own daughter did not seem at all unusual or amiss. Bee had always been second. It seemed but natural to Adele that she should be second with her father also. Bee's feelings on the subject were not considered. They never had been. Mrs. Medulla turned suddenly from her, and laid her hand lightly upon Beatrice's arm.
"I could scarcely keep Percival at home today," she said. "He insisted that it was his duty to call to see how you were."
"I should have been glad to see him," responded Bee. "Where is he?"
"I hear him coming," replied the mother.
"My daughter tells me that he is a violinist," remarked the scientist.
"Yes; Percival plays well," returned his mother simply. "He was worn out with his recitals last season, and we came here that he might have the benefit of outdoor air and exercise. He practices every day in the garden, and I think him much improved."
"Percival," as the boy entered the room, "do you see who has come? Doctor Raymond, this is my son. Miss Adele, this is Percival."
"Gee!" whispered the boy to Beatrice after he had made his devoirs. "That cousin of yours is pretty, Beefly, but I don't like her as much as I do you."
"You don't?" Beatrice was plainly amazed. "Why not, Percival?"
"Because a girl like that never thinks of anything but herself," he announced. "She couldn't be chums with me like you. I know 'em," concluded this experienced young man.
"How do you know?" asked Bee so delightedly that Mrs. Medulla glanced at her with a smile, well pleased to see her so bright.
"Would it be asking too much to desire your son to play for us?" inquired Adele sweetly. "We would like to be favored as well as Bee. Wouldn't we, Uncle William?"
"Certainly," answered the naturalist as in duty bound.
"I will play one piece, and no more," said the lad, taking his violin from the case and adjusting his music. "I am not in the mood, but because of Butterfly I will play."
Adele glanced at him quickly, showing plainly that she thought he alluded to her; but the boy's smile and nod toward Bee were unmistakable.
"How funny that you should call Bee that?" she exclaimed.
"That is what she does," explained Percival. "Gee! I saw her catch one, one day, and the jump she made with the net was a corker. Remember, Butterfly—Beefly, I mean? It was the first day that we became friends, though I had watched for a chance to speak for a long time. She is the nicest girl I know."
Beatrice's eyes misted suddenly. How loyal he was! He acknowledged Adele's beauty, but it made no difference in his liking for herself. Doctor Raymond was slightly astonished, but he merely smiled at the boy's enthusiasm, then settled himself to listen politely as Percival, without more ado, began to play. His interest was aroused, however, by the first notes, and soon he was leaning forward eagerly.
Adele fidgetted as she saw how rapt everyone became, and that no one was paying the slightest attention to her. It was a new experience to have any one else be the center of attraction while she was about.
"That is wonderful playing, my lad," exclaimed the naturalist, as Percival finished. "Wonderful!"
"It was certainly very fine," agreed Adele. "I should like to kiss you for it, Master Percival."
"No, you don't," ejaculated Percival. "I am not going to be mauled around by a silly girl."
Adele's eyes flashed; then she recovered herself.
"Of course, if you do not choose, I will not," she said, retiring gracefully from her defeat. "I merely wished to show how much I appreciated your playing."
"I don't care much for such appreciation," remarked the boy scornfully. "I get enough of it in the cities. Beatrice isn't a bit like you."
"No?" Adele's lip curled ever so slightly. "Bee is so sensible."
"Yes; she is," cried the lad, glaring at the other spoiled child fiercely. "I'd rather play to her than to a dozen like you. She knows how to appreciate music. Her eyes are full of tears now, and she scarcely breathed all the time I played, but she doesn't want to kiss me. Phew! it's silly!"
"Percival," interposed his mother quickly, "wouldn't you like to show Beatrice and her cousin your new pony?"
"Gee! I had forgotten it," cried the boy, restored to good humor instantly. "Come on, Beefly! You may come, too," he added to Adele.
For the merest second Adele hesitated. Then, as she saw that both Bee and Percival were waiting, and that the lady and her uncle looked at her expectantly, she arose and accompanied the two from the room.
"What a warm-hearted child she is," observed the lady to the doctor.
"She is indeed," agreed he. "And as beautiful as warm-hearted. Would that Beatrice were more like her."
"Pardon me, Doctor Raymond; I was not speaking of your niece, but of your daughter." The lady's surprise was obvious. "Your niece is an exceedingly beautiful girl, but she has not the depth of character that your daughter has. What Percival said of her appreciation of music was true, although the boy should not have uttered it. Beatrice's judgment is much better in such things than her cousin's."
"You amaze me, madam," gasped the scientist. "Adele seems to me to be very sensitive to the beautiful, and extremely appreciative of the poetry of life. Beatrice is of a more practical turn of mind. A mind of much vigor and strength, I grant, but still uninclined toward those things that make life graceful."
"Doctor Raymond," spoke Mrs. Medulla quickly, "there is no nature that is deficient in its musical phrase, least of all a personality like your daughter's. In her direct and genuine nature there is a 'Leitmotif' of pure sweet melody that will enrich the life of its discoverer. It awaits only the master touch. Will you be the one to give it?"
"What do you mean?" asked the Lepidopterist.
"This," she said, speaking warmly. "Beatrice is a warm-hearted, loving, impulsive girl. She needs very tender guidance just at this time to develop into the noble woman that she is capable of becoming. The child is doing much for herself, but you should aid her. No doubt you will consider the liberty unwarranted, but it must be excused by the interest I take in her. Your niece is a very lovely girl. Any other girl who is brought into relationship with her falls into second place unless she is as beautiful. Beatrice was associated with her for ten years in her home. Naturally she took second place there. If you are not careful she will be second in your home and heart also."
"Really," began Doctor Raymond with some stiffness.
"Mamma, mamma!" Percival broke into the room followed by the two cousins. "I don't like Adele one bit. She is wearing Beatrice's new hat; and she shouldn't."
"Percival!" exclaimed Mrs. Medulla in shocked tones.
"I don't care," cried the lad shrilly. "I don't want her to wear my chum's things."
"I said that she might," protested Bee, while Adele stood speechless with mortification. "If there was another boy who lived with you, Percival, you would often wear each other's things."
"You are rude, Percival," reprimanded his mother in severe accents. "It is just as Beatrice says: girls always do it."
Percival said no more, but he glanced so significantly at the hat as he bade Adele farewell that the blood rushed to her face, and her adieu was very constrained.
"I don't like those people," she exclaimed as they passed beyond hearing. "Bee, how can you bear the way Mrs. Medulla pronounces your name? It sounds like Beyoutricky."
Bee opened her lips to reply, but before she could do so, her father spoke:
"I rather liked them. The lady pronounces Beatrice's name after the Italian fashion, and is a very warm friend of hers. The boy is undoubtedly a genius, albeit somewhat spoiled. I am glad that we have them for neighbors."
"Our lives are songs;God writes the words,And we set them to music at leisure;And the song is sad, or the song is glad,As we choose to fashion the measure."—Gibbon.
"Our lives are songs;God writes the words,And we set them to music at leisure;And the song is sad, or the song is glad,As we choose to fashion the measure."
—Gibbon.
"Oh! Oh!" screamed Adele, dancing up and down distractedly. "Take it away! Take it away!"
Doctor Raymond ran from the study into the laboratory.
"What is the matter? What has happened?" he cried, alarmed by the girl's pale face and affrighted manner.
"It's a caterpillar," explained Bee, who was vainly trying to get Adele to keep still long enough to remove the creature. "There, Adele, it can't hurt you. Just be still a moment so that I can take it off."
But Adele continued to shriek, while the caterpillar wriggled along her delicate arm, each movement sufficing to send her into a fresh paroxysm of fear.
"There, child!" Doctor Raymond passed his arm about her, and held her tightly. "Don't jump so. There is nothing to be afraid of. The poor thing is as much frightened as you are. See! it's gone. Beatrice, return it to its cage."
"Take me out of this horrid place," sobbed Adele, clinging to him tightly. "I never want to come in here again."
"I thought you had been in before," said her uncle questioningly, as he led her into the study. "See that everything is closed properly, Beatrice."
"No; I have not," shivered Adele. "It was all Bee's fault. She wanted me to see some butterflies come out of their cocoons, so I went with her. The room was filled with creepy, crawly things. Oh, dear!" She shuddered, then wiped her eyes, and looked up at him plaintively. "Do you think I am an awful goose, Uncle William?"
"No, my dear," answered Doctor Raymond with a smile. "Only very feminine. Few of your sex overcome their prejudice to creeping creatures unless they become interested in them through science. I was surprised that Beatrice was not timid."
Bee, entering just then, heard the remark and smiled to herself. She did not explain that it was because of him that she had overcome her repugnance to them.
"Bee doesn't mind anything that crawls," exclaimed Adele who had recovered herself by this time.
"I don't like snakes," declared Bee emphatically.
"You people talk about the most dreadful things," cried Adele. "Do you know that I wake up nights feeling creepy? If you don't care, Uncle William, I am going down to Aunt Rachel's while you and Bee study your old worms. No more science for me, thank you."
"By all means," smiled the naturalist. "You shall be our angel of charity while Beatrice and I remain true to science. But perhaps you would prefer to go with Adele, Beatrice?"
"No;" answered Bee eagerly, glad that she was to have him to herself again. "She won't care if I stay with you, father; and I would rather be with you."
"I don't mind going alone, Uncle William, if Bee is of any assistance to you." Adele looked at him with pretty concern. "If she hinders you though you ought to send her right along with me."
Doctor Raymond was silent so long that Bee was startled.
"Do I hinder you, father?" she asked tremulously. "I did not think of that. I thought that I was helping. If I am not, if you just have me here because you think it will please me, say so; and I won't bother you any more."
"Now, Bee," protested Adele archly, "why do you tease him? Of course he is much too polite to tell you that you trouble him. I was joking anyway. Come along, and leave your father in peace."
"Leave the room," commanded Beatrice peremptorily. "I wish to be alone with my father."
"Upon my word, Bee!" cried Adele, undecided whether she should go or stay. She stood for a moment, and then, as her uncle did not come to her rescue, gave a light laugh at her cousin's determined attitude, and left the room.
"Was not that a little abrupt, my daughter?" asked Doctor Raymond quietly.
"It was, father," admitted Beatrice contritely. "But this is a matter that concerns us alone, and I just could not be trifled with. There was no reason why she should stay. Now, father, if I bother you in any way, I will do so no more, but let you work undisturbed. Do I? Tell me truly. Don't say what you think will please me, but the truth."
"The truth! the truth! and nothing but the truth," laughed he, his eyes softening as he met the earnest gaze of his daughter. "Set your mind at rest, Beatrice. You do not hinder me in the least, but on the contrary help me no little. I was summing up all that you had done when you turned upon me so suddenly. You are rather strenuous at times."
"I know that I am, father." Bee was so relieved that she was of use to him that she spoke for once without reserve: "I wish I were sweet and beautiful, and all that you wish. And, and I am trying to be lovable. It is not always easy," she ended with a sigh.
"None of us find it so, my child. I have noticed your efforts, Beatrice, with pleasure. Another thing: when I first came home, there was a carelessness in your dress which you have corrected. Your cousin herself is not more neat in her attire now than you are."
"Oh, father! have you noticed?" cried Bee so delightedly that his features relaxed into a smile. "I did not think you did. And my temper! It is so quick, but maybe in time I'll get so that I can control it. I used not to be so quick tempered, but since you have returned I seem to show all my bad qualities."
"That is scarcely complimentary to me, is it? I would better put you under your aunt's keeping again, if my influence is so—"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Bee, distressed. "I did not mean it that way. It isn't you at all, father. It is me. I can't help but feel ugly toward anyone who tries to come between us."
"Why, child, no one is trying to come between us. There is no reason why we should not become very dear friends as the years go by. I am already depending upon you greatly, and nothing but a betrayal of trust could change my feeling for you. Such a thing as that, however, I am convinced is foreign to your nature."
"I will never betray even your slightest wish," cried the girl earnestly. "You do like me a little, don't you?"
"Certainly I do. Are you satisfied now?"
"Yes;" replied Bee with eyes shining with happiness. "Dear me!" she exclaimed, glancing at the clock. "I have not been much of a help this morning. Just look at that time!"
"We won't mind it for the nonce, Beatrice. If we work well it will be but a few weeks until our task is done. The last of August will see all of my specimens out of their cocoons; then—"
"Then what, father?" she asked anxiously.
"I don't quite know yet. I am considering several things before deciding upon my plans for the future. The main point is to attend to the duty in hand. Shall we resume our work?"
The next few days were happy ones for Beatrice. She worked with her father every morning while Adele went to Aunt Rachel's with the delicacies which Bee provided. In the afternoon they walked together, and in the evening visited Percival and his mother, or were visited by them. They were bright, happy days despite the presence of Adele. Some way Beatrice felt that she was gaining ground with her father, and the knowledge made her put forth her best efforts to please him.
In fact, she threw herself into the work with so much fervor that one day she found herself too tired and indisposed to take the accustomed walk with her father and cousin, and remained indoors for rest. After lying down for a time, she rose and began to dress.
"I do believe that father forgot to put that sorrel grass in the laboratory for the larvæ of the Chrysophanus Americanus," she exclaimed suddenly, pausing in the act of brushing her hair. "I'll run right down to see."
The sorrel had been forgotten sure enough, and Beatrice ran out for some to take into the laboratory. The afternoon was extremely warm. As a usual thing the door between the study and the laboratory was kept closed, but today because of the heat Bee left it open, thinking to be in the room but a moment.
She arranged the sorrel grass in the cage where the larvæ were feeding and turned to leave the room when her attention was caught by a brilliant bit of color on a twig near a window.
"Oh!" she cried, as going close to it she discovered that it was a butterfly newly escaped from its chrysalis. "Oh, oh! it's father's rarest specimen! It's the Teinopalpus Imperialis! How delighted he will be. I wonder how soon it will fly!"
As the words left her lips the beautiful creature rose and circled the room majestically in its first flight.
"What a beauty!" cried Bee with enthusiasm. "Won't fath—Oh, the door!"
She ran toward it quickly, but she was too late. Through it sailed the butterfly into the study and out through the open window. Catching up her net Bee jumped through the window, and dashed after the insect. Daintily it settled upon a flower for a second, then away it went just as the girl gave her net a frantic swish to catch it. Hither and thither the creature darted as though intoxicated with its freedom after being earth-bound for so long. Round and round went Beatrice after it; onward and upward it flew, tantalizingly near sometimes, but ever escaping capture. Presently it rose, and disappeared over the tree tops.
"It's gone," cried Bee with a sob. "It's gone. What will father think? And the door! The door is still open."
She ran back to the house as fast as she could. Panting and breathless, hot and tired, she clambered through the window into the study.
"Beatrice." Doctor Raymond stood by the open door of the laboratory, his face very grave. "Why is this door open? I might lose a very valuable specimen through such carelessness."
"Oh, father!" cried Bee, bursting into tears. "I have lost a valuable specimen already. I have lost your Teinopalpus Imperialis. I left the door open to go in to put the sorrel grass in the cage for some larvæ, and it flew out. Father, father, I—"
"When cometh the close of a cherished thing,How keenly our heart to its charm doth cling,For it seems as sunshine vanishing."—Pall Mall Gazette.
"When cometh the close of a cherished thing,How keenly our heart to its charm doth cling,For it seems as sunshine vanishing."
—Pall Mall Gazette.
Doctor Raymond looked at her sternly. "My Teinopalpus Imperialis?" he questioned.
"Yes;" answered Bee brokenly. "After you had gone I remembered that you had spoken of sorrel grass for the larvæ of the Chrysophanus Americanus, and I thought you had forgotten it, so I ran down to put it in the cage. I did not expect to be in the laboratory but just a minute so I left the study door open. After I fixed the sorrel I saw the new butterfly. While I was looking at it, it rose and flew about the room; and then, and then—" She paused to collect herself, then continued bravely: "Then I remembered the door, but before I could reach it the butterfly had flown into the study, and out through the window. I ran after it to catch it, but I could not."
"And to the best of my knowledge it is the only known specimen in existence. Beatrice, do you realize just what your carelessness means?"
"Yes;" sobbed Bee. "I know, father."
"And you are the girl who, but a few days since, assured me that she would fail me in nothing?"
"Yes;" said Bee again, unable to meet his eyes.
"I should have known better than to have trusted you." Doctor Raymond's bitter disappointment was evident in his voice and manner. "It is doubtful if that butterfly can ever be replaced. The larva was obtained at the risk of my life, and by a few moments of carelessness all has gone for naught. I thought you different from other girls. I believed that you appreciated the privilege of being among my specimens too greatly to be careless. I see my mistake. After this, I do not wish you to enter either this study, or the laboratory. My specimens are too valuable to risk another such loss. Do you understand, Beatrice? Under no circumstances are you to enter these rooms again."
"Not even to help you catalogue, father?" Bee had ceased crying now, and she stood staring at him with eyes full of anguish.
"Not even for that purpose, Beatrice. Your own untrustworthiness has deprived you of the privilege."
"And aren't you ever going to forgive me?" she asked miserably.
"It depends upon your future conduct," returned her father coldly. "I desire to say no more upon the subject at present. Go now, while I repair whatever else of mischief may be done."
He went into the laboratory as he finished speaking, closing the door behind him. Bee sank into a chair, and sat gazing after him with all her heart in her eyes. It was ended. The delightful mornings of study, the cataloguing, the mounting and framing of the beautiful insects. By her own act she had forfeited the right to be his companion and helper. She did not question the justice of the punishment. She knew that it was right. Her father's collection was in truth too valuable to be exposed to carelessness. That it was regarded as almost priceless by the University, Beatrice knew, and, as the full realization came to her that she had lost its rarest specimen, the girl was almost overwhelmed with grief.
It was several moments before she could obtain control of herself. Then she rose, and went slowly toward the door. Pausing with her hand on the knob she turned for a last glance at the loved objects in the room. Long she looked at her father's chair, at the heap of manuscript on the table, at her own place with the note book and pencil in front of it, at the door of the laboratory behind which were all the wonderful specimens. She would be with them no more. Bee's heart was very full as she opened the door and went out, shutting it softly behind her.
Her hair was still loose and flying, but the girl felt that she could not stay in the house. She must get somewhere where she could be alone. Beyond the Medulla residence was a deep wood, and out into the road went Beatrice, intending to reach its cool recesses. The warm sunshine had brought out clouds of butterflies. Small white ones sported like fragile flower petals in the bright rays. Silvery winged fritillaries sailed hither and thither among the red clover blossoms. A Monarch rose from a stalk of milkweed, and winged its stately flight just ahead of her. On a mud puddle by the roadside a number of azures had collected, but Beatrice, usually keenly alive to the presence of the beloved insects, passed them unheedingly. As she reached the group of sycamore trees that stood in front of the Medulla residence she paused abruptly as she caught sight of Percival and a boy under the trees. The boy, whom she recognized as the bully of the town, was dancing about the Infant Prodigy, amusing himself after the fashion of boys by teasing him.
"Is it alive?" he cried, giving Percival a poke in the ribs. "Say, kin ye speak?"
"I'll show you whether I can or not," pluckily retorted Percival who was crying mad. He made a lunge at the boy as he spoke.
"Shoo!" said the boy, brushing off an imaginary fly. "Flies are purty bothersome this year."
"Take that! And that! And that!" cried Percival, letting his small fists fly at his tormentor.
"Stop tickling, I tell you," cried the bully, seizing his hands and holding them tightly. "Say, sissy, give me one of your curls to remember ye by; won't you?"
In a flash Beatrice comprehended the situation. As Percival began to struggle helplessly in his tormentor's grip, she flew at the bully impetuously.
"Why, it's a gurl!" exclaimed the boy as, dropping Percival's hands, he turned to confront this new adversary.
"Yes," gasped Bee, punctuating her words by vigorous boxes on his ears. "It is a girl. How do you like it?"
With all the strength of her pent-up emotion she sailed into her unhappy victim. Had Bee been given to self analysis she would have known that, aside from her desire to help Percival out of his dilemma, she rejoiced in the opportunity to give vent to her own unhappiness. There followed a few brief moments of spirited action on her part, interspersed with howls of pain from the boy. Presently he broke away from her and fled precipitantly. Flushed by the success of battle Bee turned toward Percival triumphantly.
"There! I don't think he'll trouble you soon again, Percival," she said.
"You are a chum worth having, Beefly," cried the lad enthusiastically. "It was splendid. My! My! didn't you go for him!" He doubled up in a paroxysm of laughter at the remembrance. "But see here!" he ejaculated suddenly, becoming grave. "This baby business is dead right now. I have been guyed about it as long as I am going to be, and this ends it. I am a sure enough boy, and I am going to show it."
"What are you going to do?" demanded Bee, surprised by his earnestness.
"I am going to attend to this hair. The thing's got to be done today. Come down to the house and help me; won't you?"
"Wouldn't it be better for your mother to help you, Percival?" questioned the girl dubiously.
"Come on, and we'll see," he replied. Welcoming the diversion Beatrice followed him.
"Now just go in and wait for me," he said, opening the door of the sitting room. "I won't be gone a minute."
Wondering where Mrs. Medulla was Bee sat down. She knew the iron of ridicule had sunk deep into Percival's soul, and she feared for the result. If his mother would but enter soon, the girl reflected, she need not feel any responsibility in the matter. As the moments glided by, however, and no Mrs. Medulla appeared, she was assailed by a sense of uneasiness.
"What do you think of these?" exclaimed Percival, bounding into the room presently. "Look, Beefly! Aren't they great?"
Somewhere the boy had unearthed a pair of long trousers, a coat, and a real shirt with collar and tie. He whirled about for her inspection delightedly.
"Not much Fauntleroy about these, eh?" he said complacently. "What do you think of them?"
Bee was so relieved that she laughed outright.
"You don't look like the same boy, Percival. Do you think you could play your violin in those clothes?"
"Why of course I can," he declared. "I'll show you; but first—"
He ran to his mother's machine, and opening a drawer took out a pair of large shears. Bee ran toward him quickly.
"You must not do that, Percival," she cried. "Oh, where is your mother?"
"My mother has gone into town," answered Percival with a swagger. "I'll settle with her. Now, Beefly, you cut off that hair."
"I will not, Percival," answered Bee emphatically. "Do wait until your mother comes back. Do, Percival; like a dear fellow."
But Master Percival raised the shears, and—snip! Off went a curl. Another and another followed; the lad watching the result of the snipping in the mirror. As the last clip sounded Bee gave a gasp at the result.
"What will your mother say?" she cried, wishing herself anywhere but in the Medulla sitting room. "Oh! what will she say?"
"It's all right," declared Percival sturdily, though it must be confessed that he was slightly dismayed himself. "At least it would be if it were even. Do cut it straight for me, Beefly."
He thrust the shears into her hand as he spoke, and turned his back to her. "Now hurry, and cut it even," he said.
"Percival, are you here?" Mrs. Medulla opened the door at this unfortunate moment, and walked in. "I have brought you something nice from town. Guess—Why!"
She stopped short at sight of the pair. Like a culprit Beatrice stood with the shears in her hand, while Percival seemed stricken dumb. The lady's gaze concentrated upon her son's clipped head. For a long instant the three stood as though incapable of speech; then the mother spoke, and Bee shivered at the severity of her tones:
"Beatrice, what are you doing with those shears? Surely you did not cut Percival's hair?"