“Shows what?”

“How much you know!” He became despondent about her.  “See here, Florence; it does look to me as though at your age a person ought to know anyway enough not to disturb me when I’m expairamenting, and everything.  I should think——­”

But she did not prove so meek as to await the conclusion of his remonstrance.  “I never saw anything as wicked in my whole born days!  What did any of those poor, poor little bugs ever do to you, I’d like to know, you got to go and confine ’em like this!  And look how dirty your hands are!”

This final charge, wandering so far from her previous specifications of his guilt, was purely automatic and conventional; Florence often interjected it during the course of any cousinly discussion, whatever the subject in dispute, and she had not even glanced at Herbert’s hands to assure herself that the accusation was warranted.  But, as usual, the facts supported her; and they also supported Herbert in his immediate mechanical retort:  “So’re yours!”

“Not either!” But here Florence, after instinctively placing her hands behind her, brought forth the right one to point, and simultaneously uttered a loud cry:  “Oh, look at your hands!” For now she did look at Herbert’s hands, and was amazed.

“Well, what of it?”

“They’re all lumpy!” she cried, and, as her gaze rose to his cheek, her finger followed her eyes and pointed to strange appearances there.  “Look at your face!”

“Well, what of it?” he demanded, his tone not entirely free from braggadocio.  “A girl can’t make expairaments the way I do, because if one of these good ole bumblebees or hornets of mine was to give ’em a little sting, once in a while, while they was catchin’ ’em and puttin’ ’em in a jar, all they’d know how to do’d be to holler and run home to their mamma.  Nobody with any gumption minds a few little stings after you put mud on ’em.”

“I guess it serves you right,” Florence said, “for persecutin’ these poor, poor little bugs.”

Herbert became plaintive.  “Look here, Florence; I do wish you’d go on back home where you belong.”

But Florence did not reply; instead she picked up the magnifying-glass, and, gazing through it at a pickle jar of mixed beetles, caterpillars, angleworms, and potato bugs, permitted herself to shudder.  “Vile things!” she said.

“They are not, either!” Herbert retorted hotly.  “They’re about the finest insecks that you or anybody else ever saw, and you ought to be ashamed——­”

“I ought?” his cousin cried.  “Well, I should think you’re the one ought to be ashamed, if anybody ought!  Down here in the cellar playin’ with all these vile bugs that ought to be given their liberty, or thrown down the sewer, or somep’n!” Again, as she peered through the lens, she shuddered.  “Vile——­”

“Florence,” he said sternly, “you lay down that magnifying-glass.”

“Why?”