“I’ll go and ask Fan Eldridge to come back, shall I, Auntie? and she may have any seat she likes; I’m sure I don’t care.”

“Yes, dear,” Miss Ruth said, in the tone Mollie loved best to hear, “and be quick, do! or the gingerbread will be cold.”

Fannie was standing idly at the window looking toward the parsonage, already repenting of her hasty departure, when Mollie rushed in.

“Come back, Fan, do! we all want you to,” she said.  “Mamma has sent in some hot gingerbread, and Sam Ray and Roy Tyler are there, and auntie is going to tell us about swallow-tailed butterflies, and she doesn’t like to begin without you.  Come, now, do! and you may have my seat.”

The little girl needed no urging, but her mother interposed.

“Fannie was greatly to blame,” Mrs. Eldridge said.  “She has told me all about it, and I think she deserves to be punished by staying at home.”

“Oh, but please, Mrs. Eldridge,” said Mollie, “let her off this time!  It was my fault as well as hers, for you see I provoked her by answering back.”

“Say you are sorry, Fannie.”

“Yes, truly, mamma, I am,” said Fannie, with tears in her eyes; “and I’ll take any seat, or I’ll stand up all the afternoon, if you’ll only let me go, and I will try to break myself of getting angry so easy; see if I don’t!”

On the strength of these promises Mrs. Eldridge gave her consent, and the little girls crossed the lawn hand-in-hand, in loving companionship.  So harmony was restored in the Society, and all ate their gingerbread with a relish.  Sammy and Roy would have liked better to have munched their share on the piazza-steps, without plate or napkin.  Under the circumstances, however, they behaved very well; for, though Roy took rather large mouthfuls, and Sammy licked his fingers when he thought no one was looking, these were small delinquencies, and you will be glad to know that the girls were too well-bred to appear to notice.  Mollie, now fully restored to favor, was allowed to pass the finger-bowl, while Susie collected the plates, distributed the work, and made every thing snug and tidy in the room.  Then Miss Ruth commenced the story of

THE SWALLOW-TAILED BUTTERFLY.

“When I was ten years old, my brother Charlie and I spent a summer with Aunt Susan, who lived in the old homestead some miles out of town.

“One night after tea she sent us into the garden to gather some sprigs of fennel for her to take to prayer-meeting—­all the old ladies in Vernon took dill or fennel to evening meeting.  I had just put my hand to the fennel-bush when I drew it back with a scream.

“‘What’s the matter?’ said Charlie.

“‘A great, horrid green worm,’ said I.  ‘I almost touched it!’

“‘Here, let me smash him!’ said Charlie; ‘where is he?’

“‘Oh, don’t touch him!’ I cried; ’he might bite you.  Oh, dear, I hate worms!  I wonder what they were made for!’