ill you let me come
home alone? I don't wish to be rude, Percival, but I am very unhappy."

"If you will come over for a time you may do anything you please," said
the lad earnestly. "I am sorry if I seem to bother, but when I am
troubled music puts everything all right. It's the same with mamma, and
with old Heinrich, and with lots of people. I just believe that it will
help you too, or I should not insist. Now, come, Butterfly."

"You are very nice to me, Percival," said Beatrice, touched. "Nicer than
you ought to be, because I have not been good to you this morning. But I
just can't be pleasant to any one."

"I know." The boy nodded his head sagaciously. "I feel that way too,
sometimes."

"And, Percival, you must not call me Butterfly. Butterflies are pretty
and only good-looking people should be called so. I have a cousin who is
very beautiful. We always called her that, but they call me Bee."

"And bees make honey, don't they? I like honey, and I like bees. I think
I like them better than I do butterflies. They have a sting, too, don't
they?"

"Yes," answered the girl.

"You have too. That is, you can say some sharp things. I think bee suits
you better than the other because you do things. I am going to call you
Beefly. Butterflies never do anything, do they?"

"They don't need to do anything," sighed Bee. "It's only homely insects
that need to work."

Percival made no answer, and silently they went through the orchard and
across the field, and through the hedge into the garden beyond. Mrs.
Medulla greeted them pleasantly, as they entered.

"Good morning, Beatrice," she said, noting the girl's paleness
instantly. "You have made quite a conquest of my son. He has never taken
so to a girl before."

"She's different," spoke Percival sententiously, adjusting the music on
the rack, and picking up his violin. "Other girls don't think of
anything but dresses and things to wear. She doesn't tag after a fellow
either. I like her. You must not talk any more, mamma. She is troubled,
and I'm going to play to make her feel better."

"Very well," said the lady, with a faint smile. "Sit here by me, my
dear," she added kindly to Beatrice.

The girl sank into a low chair by her side, comforted in spite of
herself by their kindness. Presently the young violinist began to play.
Beatrice listened perfunctorily at first, but pretty soon she found
herself caught, and held by his wonderful playing. On and on he played,
n