htened his understanding considerably.

"I am dreadfully out of practice," commented Adele, seating herself at
the instrument, and letting her hands flutter over the keys dreamily.
"Since papa has been so ill I have not touched the piano. What do you
like, Uncle William?"

"Anything, child," replied Doctor Raymond, seating himself in a large
arm chair and preparing to be comfortable. "I am fond of music of all
kinds. So let it be 'grave or gay, lively or severe,' it will please me.
Beatrice has not favored me with any music yet."

"I don't play," said Beatrice quietly. "You should hear Percival on the
violin, father. He is wonderful!"

"And who is Percival, Beatrice?"

"He is the son of our new neighbor, Mrs. Medulla," Bee informed him. "He
lives with his mother in the old Brawley place. He is an infant
prodigy."

"I don't care much for such precocity," observed the doctor dryly. "It
is usually exploited by long-legged chaps who seek to prolong the
illusion of the infantile period by knickerbockers and curls. I am not
speaking of your friend, Beatrice, but of the brood in general."

"But Percival _has_ curls, and he _does_ wear knickerbockers," spoke Bee
in dismay. "Though he told me, father, that he despised his clothes, and
that a real fellow did not like to wear such things. He really is a
marvel, and I am sure that Mrs. Medulla would like for us to call on
them. She has been very nice to me."

"Very well, my daughter. I suppose that we ought to be neighborly, but I
shall not have much time for visiting. Let us listen to your cousin now.
She is waiting for us."

Adele had at length settled herself to her satisfaction. She liked to
play. She was the center of all eyes at the piano, and she was
conscious that she looked her very best as, with eyes upturned, she sang
some old ballad in her sweet and plaintive little voice.

Doctor Raymond lighted a cigar. Bee brought his tobacco set and placed
it upon a small table by his chair. Then she sat down to listen. How
beautiful Adele was! Despite her good resolutions a pang went through
her heart as she noted her father's intense gaze of admiration. Adele
sang on and on. The room grew dark. Beatrice rose, attended to the
lights, trying to stifle the feeling of sadness that was stealing over
her.

"Isn't she pretty?" she asked of her father suddenly, bending over and
speaking wistfully.

"She is like an exquisite cameo," was the entomologist's enthusiastic
respo