And so Bert passed into the house of glass. It had been breath-taking as seen from the outside; it was glorious within. It seemed to him that every known butterfly in the world must be there. He was filled with a fear of hurting them, and stood motionless and feasted his eyes. Never for a moment did the movement of wings in some part of the glass house cease. The languor of their flight, the grace of their motion, the silent mystery of their flutterings from flower to flower, fascinated him and held him spellbound. Nor did he move until Tom Woods called to him from the cabin.
He found a table set for two, and the aromatic smell of coffee in the air. But it was of the butterflies the man spoke.
"Like 'em?"
"They're great," Bert said, at a loss for other words. "Do you know all about them—their names and what they like to eat—and all that?"
"I have to; it's my business." And then at the wonder reflected in the boy's face: "Every person ought to be master of something. It's his excuse for living."
They took places at the table, and the man began to serve the meal.
"You live alone, don't you?" Bert asked.
"Yes; I do," Tom Woods answered ruefully. "Isn't a man a fool to live alone?" He poured the coffee and smiled. "But I like it, and I'm never
