ling round to face her;
"when I do, my first business will be to cut you up, Mrs. Stoutenburgh."

"Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden while the roll went on, "I have not
forgotten your question,--they, and we, are going to play a French game
called 'the Butterfly and the Flowers;' wherein I, a midge, am in
humble attendance oh a sprig of mignonette. Whenever our butterfly
gardener chooses to speak the name of any flower or insect, that Flower
or insect must reply: when he speaks of the gardener, you flowers must
extend one hand in token of welcome, we insects draw back in dismay: if
the gardener brings his watering-pot, or there falls a shower of rain,
you must hold up your head for joy--I must kneel down for fear. If the
sunshine is mentioned, we are free to rejoice together--standing up and
making demonstrations. You may reply, Miss Faith, either in your own
words or quotations, so that you mention some one of your companions;
but if you fail to speak, or break any other rule, you must pay a
forfeit first and redeem it afterwards."

"I may mention either insect or flower?" said Faith.

"Yes, just what you like."

"If everybody is ready," said the doctor, "I will begin by remarking
that I find myself in an 'embarras de richesses'--so many sweets around
me that I--a butterfly--know not which to taste first; and such an
array of enemies, hostile alike to the flowers and me, that I know not
which to demolish first. I hope a demolishing rain will fall some of
these days--ah! that is gratifying! behold my enemies shrinking
already, while the flowers lift up their heads with pleasure and warm
themselves in the rays of the sun. What is mignonette doing?"

There was a general outcry of laughter, for as the gentlemen had
kneeled and bent their heads, and the flowers had risen to greet the
sun,--Faith, in her amusement and preoccupation had sat still. She rose
now, blushing a little at being called upon.

"Mignonette loves the sun without making any show for it. She has no
face to lift up like the white lily."

"The white lily isn't sweet like lavender," said Miss Julia.

"And the lavender has more to do in the linen press than among
butterflies," said Mrs. Somers.

"It is good to know one's place," said the doctor. "But the butterfly,
seeking a safe resting place, flutters with unpoised flight, past the
false poppy which flaunts its gay colours on the sight."

"And fixes its eyes on the distant gardener with his watering-p