Fanning tries a bee's
temper, because she must always keep in the same place where she
never seems to be doing any good, and, all the while, she is
wearing out her only wings. When a bee cannot fly, a bee must not
live; and a bee knows it. The Wax-moth crept forth, and caressed
Melissa again.
"I see," she murmured, "that at heart you are one of Us."
"I work with the Hive," Melissa answered briefly.
"It's the same thing. We and the Hive are one."
"Then why are your feelers different from ours? Don't cuddle so."
"Don't be provincial, Carissima. You can't have all the world
alike--yet."
"But why do you lay eggs?" Melissa insisted. "You lay 'em like a
Queen--only you drop them in patches all over the place. I've
watched you."
"Ah, Brighteyes, so you've pierced my little subterfuge? Yes,
they are eggs. By and by they'll spread our principles. Aren't
you glad?"
"You gave me your most solemn word of honour that they were not
eggs."
"That was my little subterfuge, dearest--for the sake of the
Cause.
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