I heard her shouts from my bedroom.

Then she came running to us, cooing in helpless joy.
"Candy--candy--Uncle Maje--lovely candy--all pink and dusty." Well over a face set with the mother's eyes was spilled that which she had clutched and eaten of,--a thing pink and dusty, in truth, but which was not candy.
"She does those things constantly," said the dejected father.

"I don't see what I can do to her." I saw, however, and did it, first wiping the tooth-powder from her face.
She had called me Uncle Maje.
"She's a regular baddix," announced my namesake, gravely judicial.

Then, as if with intention to indicate delicately that the family afforded striking contrasts, he added, "_I_ ain't a baddix--I can nearly sing." The children fribbled about us while we talked away the afternoon.

The woman child at last put me to thinking--to thinking that perhaps butterflies are not meant to be happily caught.