“That's nonsense,” a downy, day-old bee answered. “In the first place, I never heard of a Death's Header coming into a hive. People don't do such things. In the second, building pillars to keep 'em out is purely a Cypriote trick, unworthy of British bees. In the third, if you trust a Death's Head, he will trust you. Pillar-building shows lack of confidence. Our dear sister in grey says so.” “Yes. Pillars are un-English and provocative, and a waste of wax that is needed for higher and more practical ends,” said the Wax-moth from an empty store-cell. “The safety of the Hive is the highest thing I've ever heard of. You mustn't teach us to refuse work,” Melissa began. “You misunderstand me, as usual, love. Work's the essence of life; but to expend precious unreturning vitality and real labour against imaginary danger, that is heartbreakingly absurd! If I can only teach a--a little toleration--a little ordinary kindness here toward that absurd old bogey you call the Death's Header, I shan't have lived in vain.” “She hasn't lived in vain, the darling!” cried twenty bees together. “You should see her saintly life, Melissa! She just devotes herself to spreading her principles, and--and--she looks lovely!” An old, baldish bee came up the comb. “Pillar-workers for the Gate! Get out and chew scraps. Buzz off!” she said. The Wax-moth slipped aside. The young bees trooped down the frame, whispering. “What's the matter with 'em?” said the oldster. “Why do they call each other 'ducky' and 'darling'? Must be the weather.” She sniffed suspiciously. “Horrid stuffy smell here. Like stale quilts. Not Wax-moth, I hope, Melissa?” “Not to my knowledge,” said Melissa, who, of course, only knew the Wax-moth as a lady with principles, and had never thought to report her presence. She had always imagined Wax-moths to be like blood-red dragon-flies. “You had better fan out this corner for a little,” said the old bee and passed on. Melissa dropped her head at once, took firm hold with her fore-feet, and fanned obediently at the regulation stroke three hundred beats to the second. Fanning tries a bee's temper, because she must always keep in the same place where she never seems to be doing any good, and, all the while, she is wearing out her only wings. When a bee cannot fly, a bee must not live; and a bee knows it. The Wax-moth crept forth, and caressed Melissa again. “I see,” she murmured, “that at heart you are one of Us.” “I work with the Hive,” Melissa answered briefly. “It's the same thing. We and the Hive are one.” “Then why are your feelers different from ours? Don't cuddle so.” “Don't be provincial, Carissima. You can't have all the world alike--yet.” “But why do you lay eggs?” Melissa insisted. “You lay 'em like a Queen--only you drop them in patches all over the place. I've watched you.” “Ah, Brighteyes, so you've pierced my little subterfuge? Yes, they are eggs. By and by they'll spread our principles. Aren't you glad?”