displayed in your cheeks?" "The honorable court has nothing to do with my face," said the witness defiantly. "On the contrary, your face is the _corpus delicti._ Did you, taking advantage of the unconscious and hence defenseless condition of my client, that is, of Mr. Martin Dyke, lean over him and deliberately imprint a--" "No! No! No! No! _No_!" cried the butterfly with great and unconvincing fervor. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" "On the circumstantial evidence of a pink rose petal. But worse is coming. The charge is unprovoked and willful murder." Butterflies are strange creatures. This one seemed far less concerned over the latter than the former accusation. "Of whom?" she inquired. "You have killed a budding poet." Here I violated a sacred if implied confidence by relating what the bewitched sleeper on the bench had said under the spell of the moon. The result was most gratifying. The butterfly assured me with indignation that it was only a cold in her head, which had been annoying her for days: _that_ was what made her eyes act so, and I was a suspicious and malevolent old gentleman--and--and--and perhaps some day she and Mr. Martin Dyke might happen to meet. "Is that a message?" I asked. "No," answered the butterfly with a suspicion of panic in her eyes. "Then?" I queried. "He's so--so awfully go-aheadish," she complained. "I'll drop him a hint," I offered kindly. "It might do some good. I'm afraid of him," she confessed. "And a little bit of yourself?" I suggested. The look of scorn which she bent upon me would have withered incontinently anything less hardy than a butterfly-devouring orchid. It passed and thoughtfulness supplanted it. "If you really think that he could be influenced to be more--well, more conventional--" "I guarantee nothing; but I'm a pedagogue by profession and have taught some hard subjects in my time."