Doctor Raymond looked at her sternly. "My Teinopalpus Imperialis?" he questioned.
"Yes;" answered Bee brokenly. "After you had gone I remembered that you had spoken of sorrel grass for the larvæ of the Chrysophanus Americanus, and I thought you had forgotten it, so I ran down to put it in the cage. I did not expect to be in the laboratory but just a minute so I left the study door open. After I fixed the sorrel I saw the new butterfly. While I was looking at it, it rose and flew about the room; and then, and then—" She paused to collect herself, then continued bravely: "Then I remembered the door, but before I could reach it the butterfly had flown into the study, and out through the window. I ran after it to catch it, but I could not."
"And to the best of my knowledge it is the only known specimen in existence. Beatrice, do you realize just what your carelessness means?"
"Yes;" sobbed Bee. "I know, father."
"And you are the girl who, but a few days since, assured me that she would fail me in nothing?"
"Yes;" said Bee again, unable to meet his eyes.
"I should have known better than to have trusted you." Doctor Raymond's bitter disappointment was evident in his voice and manner. "It is doubtful if that butterfly can ever be replaced. The larva was obtained at the risk of my life, and by a few moments of carelessness all has gone for naught. I thought you different from other girls. I believed that you appreciated the privilege of being among my specimens too greatly to be careless. I see my mistake. After this, I do not wish you to enter either this study, or the laboratory. My specimens are too valuable to risk another such loss. Do you understand, Beatrice? Under no circumstances are you to enter these rooms again."
"Not even to help you catalogue, father?" Bee had ceased crying now, and she stood staring at him with eyes full of anguish.
"Not even for that purpose, Beatrice. Your own untrustworthiness has deprived you of the privilege."