how close the bees come. There is
no danger of your being stung."

The square white box was full of wooden frames, hanging one behind
another, like the leaves of a book. One by one the man lifted them
out, swept off the black curtain of bees that clung to them, and
showed the clean, new, sweet-smelling honeycomb.

"When an old hive gets too crowded, and the bees begin to swarm," he
explained, "we divide them and put some frames and bees into a new,
empty hive. See them going to work already, and look at that piece of
comb that has just been built; one would think that the fairies had
made it."

Oliver had never seen anything so white and thin and delicate as the
frail new cells ready for the fresh honey. He forgot any dread of the
myriad creatures buzzing about his head, he forgot even his plan, and
his impatience of delay. He bent to peer into the hive, to examine the
young bees just hatching, the fat, black, and brown drones and the
slim, alert queen bee. The girl, now that the responsibility of
helping was off her hands, forgot her own nervousness and pressed
forward also to look and ask questions. She must be about thirteen or
fourteen years old, was Oliver's vague impression of her; she had dark
hair and quick, brown eyes, her cheeks were very pink, and one of them
was decorated with a black smudge from the smoke blower. He was too
intent to notice her much or to remember his fearful dread of girls.
And of course this little thing in the shabby apron was very different
from the threatened Cousin Eleanor.

He could not see much of the man's face under the worn straw hat, as
they bent over the hive, but he liked the slow, drawling voice that
answered his innumerable questions and he found the chuckling laugh
irresistibly infectious. The stranger's brown hands moved with steady
skill among the horde of crawling insects, until the last frame was
set in place, the last puff of smoke blown, and the cover was put
down.

"There, young man," said the beekeeper, "that was a good job well
done, thanks to you; but you must not go yet. Polly and I always have
a little lunch here in the honey house when we have finished, to
revive us after our exhausting labor."

Oliver was about to protest that he must go on at once, but the man
interrupted him, with a twinkle in his eye.

"There is a spring behind the house where we wash up," he said. "Polly
will give you some soap and a towel. Wood smoke smells good, but it is
just