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, be