“Do you remember saying just now,” said Maurice, “that things which were different in one way were generally different in another? Beetles are different from us; they can’t do the same things; we despise them; they haven’t as good a time. Perhaps they can do things we don’t know anything about; perhaps they despise us; perhaps they are going to have a better time in some other world. What are all the stars for?” Marjorie wrinkled her brows, and kicked one tiny slipper half off. “I almost think I see what you mean----” “I am not at all sure I meant anything,” said Maurice. “It was just a suggestion.” Marjorie had thrown down the penholder, and taken the body of Thomas in her hand. “Beetles might have some secrets that we know nothing about. But Miss Dean says that all insects were sent into the world for the birds to eat.” Maurice was silent for a moment. He was remembering that Miss Dean had remarked to him the day before that she considered that the birds had been created to kill the insects. “I should like to talk the question over with a beetle. Now I must be off and dress.” When he had gone an old trick of Marjorie’s younger days came back to her. She had often, in her babyhood, held conversations with voiceless or inarticulate things, such as dolls or cats, and on one occasion, after a stormy music lesson, she had made the piano promise to _make_ the music come out right next time. She had always to do the speaking for them, so it was not quite convincing; but it was helpful and consolatory in its way. And now she began to talk to the beetle aloud, holding it on the palm of one little white hand-- “Beetle, tell me your secrets. Tell me all your secrets.” There was silence. “I want to know if beetles are as good as men. Are they? Are they better than men? Are there better things than we ever think of doing, which we might do if it was only possible to think of them? _Do_ tell me. I won’t tell anybody, except Maurice and mamma, if she asks me, but she won’t. You _might_ tell me--it’s quite safe.” There was only silence; but then it has been proved already that silence is a beetle’s method of speech. Perhaps the spirit of Thomas was there and answered her; perhaps it was elsewhere; perhaps Thomas never had a spirit. Marjorie put the beetle down again on the table, with a laugh at herself for her silliness.