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Joan laughed. “Heaven help the human beetle that wants to lie on his back if Anne gets after him later on! She would make him walk, possibly fly.”

Anne had obediently carried the beetle out of doors and put him down in the grass. He showed as lively pleasure in being released from her ministrations as many another object of philanthropy would show if a chance to get away were offered it. Anne watched it scuttle off and returned to her family somewhat cast down.

“He kept right side up all right, and went off just as fast!” she announced. “I don’t think he acted one bit attached to me. Maybe beetles aren’t. Maybe if you have a shell you don’t have a heart. That wasn’t slang, Mother! I didn’t say it! Peter-two told me he’d fine me if I said ‛have a heart,’ but I didn’t! Honest that wasn’t the same!”

“No, dear, it wasn’t. That was science, not slang,” Joan comforted her.

Anne went over and seated herself, cross-legged, in the deep window seat. She fell into one of her meditative moods in which she was lost to all around her. Active or contemplative, Anne was always at the nth degree of her temporary condition.