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work," he said at last; "I only hunt for specimens."

"For specimens?"

"Butterflies, Henrietta," said her mother, in a superior tone, "and moths."

"Moths! Oh!" The eyes had opened very wide. "And stick pins into them?"

There was an embarrassed silence about the table.

"Do you?" she demanded.

"Sometimes," he admitted feebly.

Henrietta's face grew stern. "I'd never do it," she exclaimed, "not if I were a grown man."

"You don't suppose they feel it, Henrietta?" Ethelberta's voice was slow and gentle.

"Of course they feel it," snapped Henrietta. "Would n't you?"

"Oh, but that's different, dear."

"It's just the same," declared Henrietta. There was a little catch in her voice. "Excuse me, please, mother."

She slipped from the table, and they smiled at each other indulgently.

"She's such a child," said Mrs. Tryon.

"And she thinks you spear them alive," explained Ethelberta.

"Oh, I don't do that," said the Scientist; "at least, not when I have chloroform," he added conscientiously.

"Of course not," said Mrs. Tryon. "Now about the luncheon, Ethelberta."

The Scientist strolled away. He crossed the cleared space and stood by the edge of the wood, looking in. It was just here that she stood last night with the dog at her side. It must have been here that she disappeared. A tiny path led into the branches, and he leaned forward, peering absently into it. Suddenly, with a flash, he raised himself. His eye had dilated, and his hand trembled. He lifted it swiftly to his head. He had no hat,—no net! Great heavens! And there, not two feet from his hand, was the Scarberus. It rested lightly among the green leaves of a bush. He lifted his hand cautiously. He must risk it. He drew out his handkerchief and turned noiselessly, his very breath suspended in hope and fear. Slowly he moved his hand, curving it away from sight, and rising on tiptoe as it hovered above the brown wings. He drew a quick breath—now!

There was a sudden rush from behind, a quick stroke on the bush, a harsh "Shoo!" and the brown wings rose, noiseless and free.

He stood gaping at them as they sailed away toward the blue, higher and higher. Then his eye dropped to where she stood beside him.

Her face quivered a little with shame and exultation.

"What did you do that for?" he asked.

"It's small business."

"It's hard work."

"How would you like a knife stuck into you?"

"But I always chloroform them."

"You do!" There was mingled astonishment and regret in the tone.

"Of course."

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

"It's no matter"—stiffly.

"Yes, it is."

"Well, perhaps a little."

"But you can get plenty more."

"Never!"—with deep conviction.

"I've seen hundreds."

"You!" He started forward. "Then you can—"

She retreated, looking at him with distrustful, negative eyes.

"Never!"

"I did n't say it," he breathed apologetically.

She retreated farther.

"Never!" she repeated, putting out her hand as if to ward off the evil thing. Her eyes grew dark. "Never, never, never!" She had disappeared among the shrubs.

V

This was the last that the Scientist saw of her for twenty-four hours, or, more accurately, the last words that he heard her speak. She went on the picnic with the rest; but she had a way of flitting ahead with Buff, or falling behind with the pack-mule, and reappearing, by some short cut, far ahead, that made her only an elusive attendant on the feast. And when the actual eating was done and the dishes packed away, she disappeared once more into the forest. Mrs. Tryon, under cover of verifying a mushroom, took a surreptitious nap; and the Scientist and Ethelberta, on the bank of a little stream that threaded the hill, read Browning and talked of music. There was a slow, dreamy return under the starlight, more