“It got broke a little, somehow,” remarked the boy; “it’s wings are awful brittle.”

“Yes, they are,” assented Anderson.

“I had to chase it quite a spell,” said the boy, with an evident desire not to have his efforts underestimated.

“Yes, I don’t doubt it,” replied Anderson, with gratitude well simulated.

“It seemed rather a pity to kill such a pretty butterfly as that,” remarked the boy, unexpectedly, “but I thought you’d like it.”

“Yes, I like to have a nice collection of butterflies,” replied Anderson, with a faint inflection of apology.  In reality, the butterflies’ side of it had failed to occur to him before, and he felt that an appeal to science in such a case was rather feeble.  Then the boy helped him out.

“Well,” said he, “I do suppose that a butterfly don’t live very long, anyhow; he has to die pretty soon, and it’s better for human beings to have him stuck on a pin and put where they can see how handsome he is, rather than have him stay out in the fields, where the rain would soak him into the ground, and that would be the end of him.  I suppose it is better to save anything that’s pretty, somehow, even if the thing don’t like it himself.”

“Perhaps you are right,” replied Anderson, regarding the boy with some wonder.

“Maybe he didn’t mind dying ’cause I caught him any more than just dying himself,” said Eddy.

“Maybe not.”

“Anyhow, he’s dead,” said the boy.

He watched Anderson carefully as he manipulated the insect.

“I’m sorry his wing got broken,” he said.  “I wonder why God makes butterflies’ wings so awful brittle that they can’t be caught without spoiling ’em.  The other wing ain’t hurt much, anyhow.”

A sudden thought struck Anderson.  “Why, when did you get this butterfly?” he asked.

The boy flushed vividly.  He gave a sorrowful, obstinate glance at the man, as much as to say, “I am sad that you should force me into such a course, but I must be firm.”  Then he looked away, staring out of the window at the tree-tops tossing against the brilliant blue of the sky, and made no reply.

Anderson made a swift calculation.  He glanced at a clock on the wall.  “Where did you get this butterfly?” he inquired, harmlessly, and the boy fell into the net.

“In that field just beyond the oak grove on the road to New Sanderson,” he replied, with entire innocence.

Anderson surveyed him sharply.

“When is afternoon school out?” asked Anderson.

“At four o’clock,” replied the boy, with such unsuspicion that the man’s conscience smote him.  It was too easy.

“Well,” said Anderson, slowly.  He did not look at the boy, but went on straightening the mangled wing of the butterfly which he had offered on his shrine.  “Well,” he said, “how did you get time to go to that field and catch this butterfly?  You say it took a long time, and that field is a good twenty minutes’ run from here, and it is a quarter of five now.”  The boy kicked his feet against the rounds of his chair and made no reply.  His forehead was scowling, his mouth set.  “How?” repeated Anderson.