caterpillar, or grub, into a beautifully winged creature must inspire admiration in every one. More marvellous still is the growth of the human soul which in many respects resembles the development of the butterfly. It is this thought which has induced the author to attempt to depict the transformation of a careless maiden into noble womanhood.

In this first book, the process has begun. There are heart burnings, and troubles of girlhood. In the second book, the journeyings and adventures with her father, together with her development of character are treated. The third, and final volume, takes up the bursting into glorious womanhood of the girl, glorified by the coming of love.

For the curious facts and superstitions regarding butterflies woven into the story, the author desires to acknowledge her indebtedness to Dr. W. J. Holland's Butterfly Book, which is a compendium of knowledge on the subject. That the story may meet with favor, and inspire young hearts with an appreciation of these beautiful insects is the hope of the author.

L. F. M.

New York City.

Bee and Butterfly

Chapter I

An Impulse of Mischief

It was four o'clock. The little town of Louisiana, Missouri, had slumbered all afternoon in the spring sunshine, but woke suddenly to life as the doors of the big brick school house opened, and the boys and girls poured forth. As the outgoing stream of pupils reached the gate several High School girls left the line, and withdrawing a short distance from the others, formed a little group by themselves, standing with faces turned expectantly toward the door of the building as though they were waiting for some one.

"I wonder why Bee doesn't come!" exclaimed one of the girls impatiently as the line dwindled to two or three pupils, and then ceased altogether. "I don't see why she pokes around that old school house so long?"

"She was going to help Professor Lawrence with some specimens," spoke a tall girl quickly. "You know Bee likes—"

"Bugs," finished the other girl with a shiver. "Oo-ooh! I wouldn't handle the worms, and creepy, crawly things that Bee Raymond does for anything."

"It isn't bugs at all," answered the tall girl with a trace of indignation in her voice. "It's caterpillars and butterflies. Bee's making a special study of them so as to surprise her father when he comes from abroad. He's a Lepidopterist, you know, and she is working to fit herself to be his secretary."

"Is he coming home soon, Edna?" queried one of the others.

"Not for two more years," responded Edna, who seemed to be well informed on the matter. "And just think, girls! Bee hasn't seen him for ten years."

"Fancy not seeing one's own father in all that time," remarked the girl who had first spoken. "Of course, it's just splendid to get letters from abroad, and to have all those lovely things he sends her; but I don't know, I think I'd rather have my father."

"Why, so would Bee," laughed Edna. "She's just crazy for him to come home. She—"

"There she is now," cried one, and with new interest each member of the group turned to look at the girl who at this moment came through the door of the school house.

Beatrice Raymond was a slender girl, tall for her fifteen years, with movements full of unconscious grace; for she had always been much in the open air and was accustomed to perfect freedom in her limbs. She could run as fast and jump as far as many boys who "fancied" themselves as athletes. Her hair was very dark, very straight, and very abundant. Her eyes were large, dark, and expressive; her complexion was dark also and without color. She created the thought in the minds of those observers who looked below the surface that there was intellect—thoughtful, loving, and perhaps unusual intellect. A strap of books was flung over her left shoulder, boy fashion, and her hat was set carelessly on one side of her head. She was laughing as she came to them, and the girls crowded around her eagerly.

"What's the joke, Bee?" cried Edna.

"It's a conundrum," answered Beatrice merrily. "Professor Lawrence just told it to me. See if any of you can answer it: 'Why are caterpillars like buckwheat cakes?'"

"Pooh! that's easy. Because they make the butter fly," answered one of the group. The others shouted with laughter as Bee turned an astonished look upon her.

"How did you know?" she asked. "Professor Lawrence just told it to me."

"Why, Beatrice Raymond, that joke was old before Professor Lawrence was born," said the one called Edna. "It's as old as—as the hills, and may be older for all I know. If you weren't so deep in that old Butterfly book you would have heard it long ago. Here! let me fix that hat. What would your Aunt Annie say if you were to come home with it at an angle of forty-five degrees?"

"Is it so bad as all that, Edna?" asked Bee indifferently. "Someway, I never do get my things on right. Now Adele's are always just so. I do believe that she could dress in the dark, and come out looking as neat as a pin."

"Where is Adele, Bee? Why didn't she come to school this afternoon?"

"She was not feeling well, so Aunt Annie thought it best to keep her home," answered Beatrice. "Aren't you going now, girls? I must hurry."

"Oh, Bee! why?" came from the group in a chorus. "We've been waiting for you ever so long so that you could go with us to Edna's. Do come! It won't be any fun unless you do."

"I can't," replied Bee. "I'd like to ever so much, but I must finish my letter to father. It has to be written today so that it can reach New York in time for Saturday's steamer."

"Will you come tomorrow then?" asked Edna. "You and Adele too."

"Yes, if Aunt Annie doesn't mind. Now I must go. Good-bye, girls."

"Bee," called one as Beatrice started on at a brisk walk.

"Well?" Bee paused good naturedly.

"Edna was telling us how long your father had been away, and I want to ask you if you think he would know you if he were to meet you unexpectedly?"

"Oh, Sue, that's mean!" came from the girls in shocked tones. "Don't answer her, Bee."

"But I don't ask for meanness," went on Sue apologetically as she saw the look that came into Bee's eyes. "I really want to know."

"Why, of course he would know me," uttered Bee hastily. "I'm his daughter."

"Yes; but—" began the irrepressible Sue, when Edna caught her about the waist and pressed one hand firmly over her mouth.

"Go on, Bee," she cried. "I'll attend to her. You'll have to hurry if you get home in time to finish that letter."

Beatrice turned, and slowly went on her way. Her uncle's house, where she lived, was in the western outskirts of the town more than a mile distant from the school. It behooved her to hasten if she were to finish her letter before tea time, but that question of Sue's had set her to thinking.

On the death of her mother, ten years before, her father, overwhelmed with grief at his loss, had accepted an offer to go abroad to complete a collection of lepidoptera for Union University, leaving her in charge of his brother's family. His letters had been frequent, and so tender and loving that the question of recognition had never occurred to her.

The houses became fewer as Beatrice reached the edge of town where the main street became a turnpike with green fields on either side, and a clear view of the distant hills. It was a beautiful April day. At the opening of the month spring had smiled invitingly; then, as though repenting her forwardness, she had retreated for a time, advancing again with coy