. "I wonder if it is because of
the butterflies that you are so different? Never mind! I'll fetch you
yet. See if I don't."

"Good-bye," called Bee with a laugh, and darted through the opening in
the hedge.

Chapter XII

The Arrival of Guests

"The thistles show beyond the brook
Dust on their down and bloom,
And out of many a weed-grown nook
The aster flowers look
With eyes of tender gloom."

--_W. D. Howells._

Master Percival returned Bee's visit the very next day.

"What did you do with that butterfly that you caught?" he asked as he
seated himself. "Why did you catch it anyway?"

"Father thought it an unusually fine one, and wished it for his
collection," replied Bee. "You cannot see it now because it is not ready
to set up yet, but I can show you some others, if you care to see them."

"I do care," he answered. "I never noticed those things until I saw you
catching them."

"You didn't?" asked Bee in surprise, as she led the way to the
laboratory. "How could you help noticing them?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's because I have not been in the country very
much. What makes you like them?"

"They are so beautiful, Percival, for one thing. Then my father likes
them. They are his specialty."

Percival gave a cry of delight as they entered the laboratory, and some
butterflies rose from the thistles upon which they were resting. Like
autumn leaves released from their moorings they floated about, brilliant
bits of color. Soaring, curving, dropping into the depths of the corners
of the room, the butterflies rose and fell, rose and circled higher,
higher, up to the very ceiling; then they came tumbling down among the
thistles, settling and unsettling themselves airily, noiselessly, making
their selection of resting places slowly and daintily.

"This is the very last one to burst its chrysalis," remarked Bee,
indicating a queenly Swallowtail whose flutterings denoted weakness.
"Soon it will circle about in its first flight. See the lustre of its
wings, Percival. Did you ever see anything more beautiful?"

"They are like flowers," cried the boy enthusiastically, all the artist
in him revelling in the beauty and daintiness of the insects. "Flying
flowers! They--Gee! Look at the worms!"

"They are not worms; they are caterpillars," explained Bee. "See how
they are feeding upon the leaves? When the time comes that they have
eaten enough they will spin a bed for themselves li