"I cannot resist so tempting an invitation," said Kenelm, and he fell back a little behind Lily and her companion.
"Thank you much for so pleasant a day," said Mrs. Cameron to the hostess. "Lily has enjoyed herself extremely. I only regret we could not come earlier."
"If you are walking home," said Mr. Braefield, "let me accompany you. I want to speak to your gardener about his heart's-ease--it is much finer than mine."
"If so," said Kenelm to Lily, "may I come too? Of all flowers that grow, heart's-ease is the one I most prize."
A few minutes afterward Kenelm was walking by the side of Lily along the banks of a little stream tributary to the Thames; Mrs. Cameron and Mr. Braefield in advance, for the path only held two abreast.
Suddenly Lily left his side, allured by a rare butterfly--I think it is called the Emperor of Morocco--that was sunning its yellow wings upon a group of wild reeds. She succeeded in capturing this wanderer in her straw hat, over which she drew her sun-veil. After this notable capture she returned demurely to Kenelm's side.
"Do you collect insects?" said that philosopher, as much surprised as it was his nature to be at anything.
"Only butterflies," answered Lily; "they are not insects, you know; they are souls."
"Emblems of souls, you mean--at least so the Greeks prettily represented them to be."
"No, real souls--the souls of infants that die in their cradles unbaptized; and if they are taken care of, and not eaten by birds, and live a year, then they pass into fairies."