Out came Dakie Thayne, at this point, upon them, with his hands full.  “Miss Leslie, could you head these needles for me with black wax?  I want them for my butterflies, and I’ve made such a daub and scald of it!  I’ve blistered three fingers, and put lop-sided heads to two miserable pins, and left no end of wax splutters on my table.  I haven’t but two sticks more, and the deacon don’t keep any; I must try to get a dozen pins out of it, at least.”  He had his sealing-wax and a lighted “homespun candle,” as Leslie called the dips of Mrs. Green’s manufacture, in one hand, and a pincushion stuck full of needles waiting for tops, in the other.

“I told you so,” said Mrs. Linceford to Leslie.  “That’s it, then?” she asked of Dakie Thayne.

“What, ma’am?”

“Butterflies.  I knew you’d some hobby or other,—­I said so.  I’m glad it’s no worse,” she answered, in her pleasant, smiling way.  Dakie Thayne had a great liking for Mrs. Linceford, but he adored Leslie Goldthwaite.

“I’d like to show them to you, if you’d care,” he said.  “I’ve got some splendid ones.  One great Turnus, that I brought with me in the chrysalis, that hatched out while I was at Jefferson.  I rolled it up in a paper for the journey, and fastened it in the crown of my hat.  I’ve had it ever since last fall.  The asterias worms are spinning now,—­the early ones.  They’re out on the carrot-tops in shoals.  I’m feeding up a dozen of ’em in a box.  They’re very handsome,—­bright green with black and yellow spots,—­and it’s the queerest thing to see them stiffen out and change.”

“Can you?  Do they do it all at once?” asked Etty Thoresby, slipping into the rocking-chair, as Mrs. Linceford, by whom she had come and placed herself within the last minute, rose and went in to follow her laundress, just then going up the stairs with her basket.

“Pretty much; it seems so.  The first thing you know they stick themselves up by their tails, and spin a noose to hang back their heads in, and there they are, like a papoose in a basket.  Then their skin turns a queer, dead, ashy color, and grows somehow straight and tight, and they only squirm a little in a feeble way now and then, and grow stiffer and stiffer till they can’t squirm at all, and then they’re mummies, and that’s the end of it till the butterflies are born.  It’s a strange thing to see a live creature go into its own shroud, and hang itself up to turn into a corpse.  Sometimes a live one, crawling round to find a place for itself, will touch a mummy accidentally; and then, when they’re not quite gone, I’ve seen ’em give an odd little quiver, under the shell, as if they were almost at peace, and didn’t want to be intruded on, or called back to earthly things, and the new comer takes the hint, and respects privacy, and moves himself off to find quarters somewhere else.  Miss Leslie, how splendidly you’re doing those!  What’s the difference, I wonder, between girls’ fingers and boys’?  I couldn’t make those atoms of balls so round and perfect, ’if I died and suffered,’ as Miss Hoskins says.”