not come earlier."

"If you are walking home," said Mr. Braefield, "let me accompany you.
I want to speak to your gardener about his heart's-ease: it is much
finer than mine."

"If so," said Kenelm to Lily, "may I come too? Of all flowers that
grow, heart's-ease is the one I most prize."

A few minutes afterwards Kenelm was walking by the side of Lily along
the banks of a little stream, tributary to the Thames; Mrs. Cameron
and Mr. Braefield in advance, for the path only held two abreast.

Suddenly Lily left his side, allured by a rare butterfly--I think it
is called the Emperor of Morocco--that was sunning its yellow wings
upon a group of wild reeds. She succeeded in capturing this wanderer
in her straw hat, over which she drew her sun-veil. After this
notable capture she returned demurely to Kenelm's side.

"Do you collect insects?" said that philosopher, as much surprised as
it was his nature to be at anything.

"Only butterflies," answered Lily; "they are not insects, you know;
they are souls."

"Emblems of souls you mean,--at least, so the Greeks prettily
represented them to be."

"No, real souls,--the souls of infants that die in their cradles
unbaptized; and if they are taken care of, and not eaten by birds, and