'Stop, stop!' cried the professor, 'he is doing something odd.'

   The child had taken out of his pocket certain small black stones of a peculiar shape. So absorbed was he that he never noticed the presence of the men.

   He kissed the stones and arranged them in a curious pattern on the floor, still kneeling, and keeping his eye on Mab in her bottle. At last he placed one strangely shaped pebble in the centre, and then began to speak in a low, trembling voice, and in a kind of cadence:

   'As I live, it's a religious service, the worship of a green butterfly!' said the professor. At his voice the child turned round, and seeing the men, looked very much ashamed of himself.

   'Come here, my dear old man.' said the professor to the child, who came on being called.

   'What were you doing?—who taught you to say all those funny things?'

   The little fellow looked frightened.

   'I didn't remember you were here.' he said; 'they are things I say when I play by myself.'

   'And who is Dala?'

   The boy was blushing painfully.

   'Oh, I didn't mean you to hear, it's just a game of mine. I play at there being somebody I can't see, who knows what I am doing; a friend.'

   'And nobody taught you, not Jane or Harriet?'

   Now Harriet and Jane were the maids.

   'You never saw anybody play at that kind of game before?'

   'No,' said the child, 'nobody ever.' 'Then,' cried the professor, in a loud and blissful voice, 'we have at last discovered the origin of religion. It isn't Ghosts. It isn't the Infinite. It is worshipping butterflies, with a service of fetich stones. The boy has returned to it by an act of unconscious inherited memory, derived from Palaeolithic Man, who must, therefore, have been the native of a temperate climate, where there were green lepidoptera. Oh, my friends, what a thing is inherited memory! In each of us there slumber all the impressions of all our predecessors, up to the 

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