"It's the funny girl!" he called joyfully. "Mamma, see! It's the butterfly girl. Come on, Butterfly; come on over."
"May I?" asked Beatrice, turning to his mother. "I would like to hear the little boy play."
"By all means," said the lady graciously. "Percival does better when he has an audience. Are you Doctor Raymond's daughter?"
"Yes;" answered Beatrice, availing herself of the permission to enter the garden. "I am Beatrice Raymond."
"Percival said that he had met you," continued the lady. "He has been watching you for some weeks, and wishing that he could make your acquaintance."
"Why don't you tell her our names?" broke in the boy excitedly. "That's what she has come for. I told her yesterday that she would have to come over to find out, and she can't know us unless we tell her what to call us. I am Percival Medulla, and this is Mrs. Medulla. 'Course that isn't our real name, but when you're before the public you have to be called something high sounding."
"Percival!" cried his mother, provoked.
"Isn't it true?" demanded Percival in matter of fact tones.
"The truth when it refers to private matters is not always to be spoken," reproved Mrs. Medulla. "Miss Beatrice, (she pronounced Bee's name after the Italian manner), he is to play one hour longer. I know that I can depend upon you to keep him at his task. You show that you are trustworthy. Percival, be very nice to your friend," and she swept into the house.
So, much to the girl's wonder, she was left as mentor to the boy musician. He looked at her quizzically as he saw her dismay, and began to laugh.