“Oh, Mother, dearest,” Joan remonstrated in a voice that declared in its first note that it was made to sing lullabies, “as though Barbara were not always good now! For five months, since she passed her third month, she has let me sleep from eleven till two, and Antony and I love to have her waken before four because she is sweetest before dawn. Antony says the truly poetical time to see a baby is at dawn--provided you can get your eyes open to look! Antony is romantic; then he is ashamed of it and pokes fun at himself! Anne, you monkey, why don’t you come over to kiss me? And what _have_ you in your hand?” “It’s my beetle, Joan,” said Anne, complying with her sister’s request. “I am looking for a safe place for him, where he can get on his legs himself when I am gone. It ought to be something with kind of sticky walls. I don’t mean sticky-that-holds-you, but sticky-that-can-be-stuck-to; that kind. If you don’t mind, mother, dear, I’ll stand your prayer book, and the Imitation, and these other two little pious books around him, because they’re all bound in that soft leather, like gloves, that makes you crawl, and I want him to crawl. It won’t be sacredligious to use them, because it’s for charity, and bowls are dreadfully slippery.” “Good gracious!” exclaimed Joan, staring, though she should have been accustomed to Anne. “The beetle will be far happier out of doors, Anne,” said her mother. “He will not enjoy walls, even of soft leather. Better let him go and find another when you want to help a beetle on his legs. Anne has discovered her vocation, Joan: it is helping beetles to their legs when they are on their backs and can’t get up. I think that may quite easily prove to be a prophecy of her career!” Joan laughed. “Heaven help the human beetle that wants to lie on his back if Anne gets after him later on! She would make him walk, possibly fly.” Anne had obediently carried the beetle out of doors and put him down in the grass. He showed as lively pleasure in being released from her ministrations as many another object of philanthropy would show if a chance to get away were offered it. Anne watched it scuttle off and returned to her family somewhat cast down. “He kept right side up all right, and went off just as fast!” she announced. “I don’t think he acted one bit attached to me. Maybe beetles aren’t. Maybe if you have a shell you don’t have a heart. That wasn’t slang, Mother! I didn’t say it! Peter-two told me he’d fine me if I said ‛have a heart,’ but I didn’t! Honest that wasn’t the same!” “No, dear, it wasn’t. That was science, not slang,” Joan comforted her. Anne went over and seated herself, cross-legged, in the deep window seat. She fell into one of her meditative moods in which she was lost to all around her. Active or contemplative, Anne was always at the _nth_ degree of her temporary condition.