on't need to recall that day," he said. "Why remember the
chrysalis after the butterfly is in the air?"

"Oh, it's good for the butterfly;--keeps her grateful. However, I'm not
a butterfly. I'm a bee."

"What? The busy kind?"

Sylvia nodded.

"You don't look it. At this moment you convey a purely ornamental
idea."

"I know better, for my nose is sunburned. Besides, Mr. Dunham," the
girl looked squarely into the amused eyes, "you mustn't flirt with me."

"Perish the thought. But for argument, why not?"

"Because I can't flirt back."

Dunham smiled. "Can't or shan't?"

"Well, shan't," she returned.

"But why?" protested her companion mildly. "Surely you see that the
situation demands it. The stage is all set. I'll admit we shall have a
moon coming back, but Judge Trent's hat may eclipse it."

"I have given up the stage," replied Sylvia.

"Never mind. You can still be an amateur. You can't be a summer girl
without accepting her responsibilities."

"I'm not a summer girl. I just told you I'm a bee, and not a
butterfly."

"But even bees are keen for the flowers of life. You're not a thrifty
bee unless you investigate and see how much honey you can get out of
me."

Sylvia laughed reluctantly. "No wonder Edna calls you a shy flower,"
she replied. Her heart had a sudden pang of remembrance. "How beautiful
Edna is," she said, meeting her companion's lazy eyes.

"Yes. You say she sings well?"

"Enchantingly."

"Does she sing Schubert?"

"Ye-yes. I think he is the one, isn't he, who wrote 'Death and the
Maiden'? She sang that Sunday morning before we went down in the woods.
How long ago it seems!" Sylvia spoke wistfully and looked away, and
again a mist stole across her vision.

"Oh, let 'Death and the Maiden' go to--I was thinking of 'Who is
Sylvia? What is she, that all the swains adore her?'"

"I told you, Mr. Dunham, that you mustn't."

"I'm only offering the bee a sample of my goods."

"That isn't the sort that it pays to store. That's only fit for a
butterfly's luncheon."

"What is your special brand, then? You're rather a puzzle to me."

It was true. Sylvia did puzzle this young man, accustomed to being a
centre of social attraction wherever he went. Her exceptional
prettiness and naivete had at first promised a _sauce piquante_ to his
golden vacation hours. The sauce had indeed proved piquant, but by
reason of its difficulty of access. Most girls he had known would have
been more interest