much, my child. You kept yourself constantly in my mind by your
flowers. I liked the attention. Your mother used to do that too. You are
like her in many ways."

"Rachel told me that she did," said Bee. "That is the reason I did it.
That and because I liked to. Am I really to help you again, father?"

"Yes; although there is not much more to do. We are nearly at the end of
the cataloguing. The larvae have all entered the pupa state, and--when
the last of them come out, which will be in a few days, we have only to
classify and catalogue them which will end the work. I am boxing the
collection ready for shipping to the University. Let us go see the new
butterflies, Beatrice, before we begin work. I have not been in the
laboratory this morning."

Bee turned at once toward the laboratory, but as she reached the door
she paused hesitatingly, a remembrance of the last time when she had
lost the rare specimen clouding her pleasure.

"You have learned your lesson, Beatrice," spoke her father gently. "I
feel sure that never again will you be guilty of carelessness. Let us
think no more about it." He opened the door as he spoke, and they went
in.

The caterpillars had disappeared. A few chrysalids depended from some
twigs, and a number of butterflies, like flowers reft from their stems,
were flickering and pursuing each other in the sunshine which streamed
through the windows. They settled, and Bee stole softly toward them and
gently shook the thistles upon which they rested. The delicate creatures
rose once more. Round and round they flew like great yellow and bronze
and purple flowers, then softly, quietly settled again.

"How beautiful they are!" exclaimed Bee. "Is there another insect so
pretty, I wonder?"

"Not to me," he replied. "Perhaps it is because of our interest in them
that they appear so to us."

So it came about that Beatrice became her father's helper once more. Her
studies were resumed, and the old delightful intimacy that had prevailed
before the coming of Adele was renewed with a completer understanding of
each other on the part of both father and daughter. The cataloguing
progressed with rapidity. There came a day when Doctor Raymond laid down
his manuscript with something approaching a sigh.

"That ends your work, Beatrice," he said. "The cataloguing is ended. Now
go for a walk while I box up the last case of specimens. No; you can not
help me in that. You have already been of great assistance. I do