"you think I am disrespectful? I am
not disrespectful at all, I adore Mr. Moore. But you must acknowledge
that he's a mild herby sort of man; he's like lettuce--before it's
dressed. All the same, you know, he's an angel."

Dr. Kirby meanwhile was entertaining Betty and Katrina, now seated
together on the out-of-door sofa he had made. He was arranging at the
same time a seat for himself near them by piling together with careful
adjustment the scattered fragments of drift-wood which he had found in
the vicinity, in a sort of cairn; his intention was to crown this cairn,
when finished, with one of the boat cushions, which he had reserved for
the purpose. "No," he said, pursuing his theme and the dovetailing of
the drift-wood with energy, "I cannot say that I admire these frivolous
new fashions which have crept into literature. The other day, happening
to turn over the pages of one of these modern novels, I came upon a
scene in which the hero and heroine are supposed to be shaken, tortured
by the violence of their emotions, stirred to their utmost depths; and
yet the author takes _that_ opportunity to leave them there, leave them
in the midst of their agonies--and the reader's as well--to remark that
a butterfly flew in through the open window and hovered for a moment
over their heads; now he poised here, now he poised there, now he did
this, and now that, and so on through a quarter of a page. I ask
you--what if he did?" (Here he finished his cairn, and sat down to try
it.) "Who cares? Why should the whole action of the tale pause, and at
such a critical moment, in order that the flight and movements of an
insignificant insect should be minutely chronicled?"

"But the butterfly," said the Rev. Mr. Moore, who had drawn near, "can
hardly, I think, be described as an 'insignificant insect.'"

"Have you read these modern novels?" demanded the Doctor, facing him
from his cairn.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Moore; "I am familiar with 'Bracebridge Hall,'
'Swallow Barn,' and several other works of fiction of that type." And he
stood there looking at the Doctor with the peculiar mild obstinacy which
belongs to light-blue eyes, whose under-lids come up high at the outer
corners.

"But, Doctor, you are attacking there one of our most cherished modern
novelties," said Winthrop, who had now joined them, "namely, the new
copartnership between Nature and Literature. Nature is now a very
literary personage and a butterfly can mean a gre