“I’m sure the cannibals would not have the heart to eat her up,” Kate answers, laughingly. “The gay little thing! I like to watch her, over there in the garden, fluttering about among the flowers, prattling to her grandfather, keeping him company. I always think of the butterflies—harmless, pretty little creatures, meant, it would seem, only to rollick in the sunbeams and enjoy themselves, and brighten the landscape.” “But her everlasting chatter! If, instead of living opposite, you were right next door to them, as we are, I’m sure _you_ would tire of it sometimes,—especially in summer, when the doors and windows are all open. Oh, I assure you, her tongue is going from morning till night. It fairly drives me wild, sometimes.” “But with all her prattle one hardly ever hears her say anything really ill-natured.” “And it’s just as uncommon to hear her say anything with any sense to it!” “Well, _somebody_ must do the chattering. If none of us ever spoke but to say something sensible, what a fearfully hushed, melancholy sort of world this would be. That little brook purling among the stones, there seems to be no meaning in what it says, yet Mother Nature doesn’t bid it keep quiet; and if all these little birds should stop singing, though we can detect but little sense in their merry songs, how we should miss the music!—There!” Kate pauses, alarmed at her own boldness, for it is like treading on matches to argue with Aunt Sophia! “I didn’t mean to speechify; I beg your pardon.” “Ah, well, you and I never will agree. And here comes your angelic protégée.” Namely, Bessie, just now approaching with Monsieur Maross, who has been helping her gather the cardinal-flowers. Did you over see any of those, lads and lasses? There is no color richer or more beautiful than the deep, glowing scarlet of their corollas. It is this which gives them the name. “Figure to yourselves,” says M. Maross, who is a naturalist and a foreigner, as you perceive, “figure to yourselves some missionary priest of the early days, as he journeys through the wilderness from one Indian village to another. Passing some moist and shady nook he first spies this superb blossom. He admires it. Instantly he is reminded of _les chapeaux rouges_.[1] Behold, _lobelia cardinalis_ is no longer at loss for a title.” Monsieur also goes on to state that the flower alluded to—“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow”—was of this rich, vivid color. Whereupon the listeners exclaim in surprise. They had supposed it was white. “Yes, that is the general impression, but erroneous. I have myself seen the flower growing in that country. Had it been of white the concluding words would not have been so peculiarly applicable: ‘Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ _Comprenez?_” “Ah, yes; I see. If we only knew more about the East how many of those passages would gain in force and clearness that now one somehow cannot get at the pith of.” “You speak truly, Mees.”