entomology; his collection of butterflies was more vital to him than any
living issue; the Bartletts regarded him as a mild order of lunatic,
whose madness might have taken a more dangerous form than making up long
names for every-day common bugs.

"Look at him, just look at him, Looizy, sweating himself a day like this,
over a common dusty miller. It beats all, and with his money."

"Well, it's a harmless amusement," said the kindly Louisa, "there's a
heap more harmful things that a man might chase than butterflies."

The stillness of the midsummer day was broken by the sound of far-off
singing. It came in full-toned volume across the fields, the high
soaring of women's voices blended with the deeper harmony of men.

"What's that?" said the Squire testily, looking in the direction of the
strawberry beds, from whence the singing came.

"It's only the berry-pickers, father," said David, coming through the
field gate and going over to the well for a drink.

"I wish they'd work more and sing less," said the Squire. "All this
singing business is too picturesque for me."

"They've about finished, father. I came for the money to pay them off."

It was characteristic of Dave to uphold the rights of the berry-pickers.
They were all friends of his, young men and women who sang in the village
choir and who went out among their neighbors' berry patches in summer,
and earned a little extra money in picking the fruit. The village