the frame stretched on the bed before him was not tenanted by life, but by a spirit, a spirit that might flicker out and make its passing at any minute. There was not much strength left in the white hand that reached out to him. The voice that greeted him was scarcely above a whisper. The eyes that searched his face and rested on him were tired almost beyond endurance.
To cover his shock, his sense of pity, Jamie drew up a chair and began to talk about the thing he knew would be of most concern to the Bee Master.
“First of all,” he said, “I must tell you that I believe I’m bee immune. I’ve worn your coat and used the mint and the cinnamon pinks and the Madonna lilies prescribed by your partner, and they have been effective even above the dressings I’m carrying on my side. I can fill the water pans and gauge the right amount of salt and go past any of the hives with safety. I haven’t had much length of time to study, but in so far as I know, your bees are flourishing. Your partner sends you word that they are all right, and the youngster really seems to know.”
“Certainly,” said the Bee Master, “my partner does know. My partner knows bees rarely and finely well, even to performing the delicate operation of clipping the wings of a Queen.”
“All right, then,” said Jamie, “you can take it that the bees are fine. Margaret Cameron sends her love and her assurance that your flowers are flourishing, and I can tell you that your house is being cared for lovingly. I lock it carefully if I leave it, and I live in it sympathetically as
