Master Percival returned Bee's visit the very next day.
"What did you do with that butterfly that you caught?" he asked as he seated himself. "Why did you catch it anyway?"
"Father thought it an unusually fine one, and wished it for his collection," replied Bee. "You cannot see it now because it is not ready to set up yet, but I can show you some others, if you care to see them."
"I do care," he answered. "I never noticed those things until I saw you catching them."
"You didn't?" asked Bee in surprise, as she led the way to the laboratory. "How could you help noticing them?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's because I have not been in the country very much. What makes you like them?"
"They are so beautiful, Percival, for one thing. Then my father likes them. They are his specialty."
Percival gave a cry of delight as they entered the laboratory, and some butterflies rose from the thistles upon which they were resting. Like autumn leaves released from their moorings they floated about, brilliant bits of color. Soaring, curving, dropping into the depths of the corners of the room, the butterflies rose and fell, rose and circled higher, higher, up to the very ceiling; then they came tumbling down among the thistles, settling and unsettling themselves airily, noiselessly, making their selection of resting places slowly and daintily.
"This is the very last one to burst its chrysalis," remarked Bee, indicating a queenly Swallowtail whose flutterings denoted weakness. "Soon it will circle about in its first flight. See the lustre of its wings, Percival. Did you ever see anything more beautiful?"
"They are like flowers," cried the boy enthusiastically, all the artist in him revelling in the beauty and daintiness of the insects. "Flying flowers! They—Gee! Look at the worms!"