the rain would
soak him into the ground, and that would be the end of him. I suppose
it is better to save anything that's pretty, somehow, even if the
thing don't like it himself."

"Perhaps you are right," replied Anderson, regarding the boy with
some wonder.

"Maybe he didn't mind dying 'cause I caught him any more than just
dying himself," said Eddy.

"Maybe not."

"Anyhow, he's dead," said the boy.

He watched Anderson carefully as he manipulated the insect.

"I'm sorry his wing got broken," he said. "I wonder why God makes
butterflies' wings so awful brittle that they can't be caught without
spoiling 'em. The other wing ain't hurt much, anyhow."

A sudden thought struck Anderson. "Why, when did you get this
butterfly?" he asked.

The boy flushed vividly. He gave a sorrowful, obstinate glance at the
man, as much as to say, "I am sad that you should force me into such
a course, but I must be firm." Then he looked away, staring out of
the window at the tree-tops tossing against the brilliant blue of the
sky, and made no reply.

Anderson made a swift calculation. He glanced at a clock on the wall.
"Where did you get this butterfly?" he inquired, harmlessly, and the
boy fell into the net.

"In that field just beyond the oak grove on the road to New
Sanderson," he replied, with entire innocence.

Anderson surveyed him sharply.

"When is afternoon school out?" asked Anderson.

"At four o'clock," replied the boy, with such unsuspicion that the
man's conscience smote him. It was too easy.

"Well," said Anderson, slowly. He did not look at the boy, but went
on straightening the mangled wing of the butterfly which he had
offered on his shrine. "Well," he said, "how did you get time to go
to that field and catch this butterfly? You say it took a long time,
and that field is a good twenty minutes' run from here, and it is a
quarter of five now." The boy kicked his feet against the rounds of
his chair and made no reply. His forehead was scowling, his mouth
set. "How?" repeated Anderson.

Then the boy turned on the man. He slid out of his chair; he spoke
loudly. He forgot to glance at the door. "Ain't you smart?" he cried,
with scorn, and still with an air of slighted affection which
appealed. "Ain't you smart to catch a feller that way? You're mean,
if you are a man, after I've got you that big butterfly, too, to turn
on a feller that way."

Anderson actually felt ashamed of himself. "Now, see here, my boy