Now it happened, after a while, that the two gnomes, brother Malkin and brother Nibby, were sitting on the moss beside the roof of their house, with their back against a tree. A butterfly, with pointed wings all white and blue and brown, came fluttering towards them through the woods. It alighted on a bush directly before them, and rested there for a long time, waving its wings up and down. The gnomes sat staring at it. Oh, if that butterfly could only have said one word! Suddenly Malkin looked up at the sky and said: “What’s that blackbird carrying, brother?” “Why, I believe it’s--it’s----” began Nibby. A blackbird was flying just above them, and as they spoke something dropped from its beak right down onto the bush beside the butterfly. It was the Apple-Seed Elf. “Bless my soul, brother,” said Malkin in surprise, but before he could say anything else the Apple-Seed Elf hopped over to the butterfly and rubbed his tiny hands quickly over its beautiful wings, all white and blue and brown. [Illustration] “Oh, the wicked little villain!” cried Malkin, and the two gnomes made a dash at the Elf; but he skipped away in a hurry, laughing “Ha, ha, ha!” and disappeared from sight under the bush. The butterfly flapped its wings, trying to fly, but it couldn’t. All the powder, the soft delicate powder with its beautiful colors, which covered its wings, was brushed off; and without this powder on its wings the butterfly could not fly. The gnomes looked about carefully, and on the leaves of the bush they found the powder, and they dusted it off into an acorn cup. But they didn’t know how to put it on again. “What’ll we do about it?” said Nibby. “We’d better go to the Paint Shop,” said Malkin. “That’s a good idea, brother,” said Nibby. “I declare you do think of everything.” “Then let’s go,” said Malkin, and he picked up the poor butterfly gently. It wasn’t beautiful any longer, and it couldn’t fly. “I’ll carry the powder,” said Nibby, and he took the acorn cup in his hands, full of a powder all white and blue and brown, mixed up together. They made off through the woods as fast as they could. By and by they came to a brook, and on the other side of the brook, among the trees, was a tiny house, with an open door no taller than the gnomes, and over the door was a sign, and it said: “Butterflies Painted Here.” The gnomes crossed the brook and went in at the little door; and as they did so a big butterfly, gorgeously painted, came flying out. Inside, in a little room, a little old man with a long white beard and goggle-eyes was sitting behind a little table. On the table before him was row after row of acorn cups, hundreds of them, each one filled with a colored powder, and every color different from all the others. The little old man was a Painter of Butterflies. He dipped a tiny hair brush into one of the cups of powder, and said: “Wait a minute, please. I’ve got to finish this wing.”