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be co-operative—“to renounce their desultory habits of work, and to identify themselves with the unvarying regularity of the complex automaton.” Robert Owen’s experiments are the bright side of that way of thinking.’
    ‘That is interesting, but it is not the same question,’ said Miss Crompton. ‘The will of the mill owners is not the Spirit of the Nest.’
    William’s brow furrowed as he thought this out. He said, ‘It might be. If you were to suppose the mill owners in their machine-making to be equally in fact obeying the will of the Spirit of the Hive.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Matty Crompton with a kind of glee. ‘I see where you are. A modern Calvinism by the back door, the nest door.’
    ‘You think a great deal, Miss Crompton.’
    ‘For a woman. You were about to add, “for a woman”, and then refrained, which was courteous. It is my great amusement, thinking. I think as bees sun themselves, or ants stroke aphids. Do you not think we should provide an artificial ant-paradise with aphids, Mr Adamson?’
    ‘Indeed we should. We should surround it with plants beloved of aphids if it can be contrived. If their presence can be tolerated in the schoolroom.’
    *   *   *
    The little girls gathered to observe the ants with mingled squeals of fascination and repulsion. The ants set about excavating and organising their new home with exemplary industry. Miss Mead, an elderly soft-faced person with thinning hair and sprouting hairpins, made little speeches to the little girls about the
kindness
of the ants, who laboured for the good of each other, who could be observed greeting passing sisters with little drinks of nectar from their stored supply, who caressed each other, and nursed their unborn sisters in the egg, or in their larval form, with loving care, moving them from dormitory to dormitory, cleaning and feeding with unselfish devotion. Margaret jabbed Edith in the side with a quick elbow and said, ‘See, you are a little grub, you are just a little
grub
.’
    ‘You are all three grubbier than you should be,’ said Matty Crompton. ‘You have spread the earth much further than necessary, well beyond your pinafores.’
    Miss Mead, who was obviously accustomed to ignoring small tiffs, embarked in a dreamy voice on the story of Cupid and Psyche.
    ‘Ants, my dears, have been seen as human helpers since the remotest antiquity. The story of the unfortunate Princess Psyche illustrates this. She was so beautiful, and so beloved of all who saw her, that the Goddess of Beauty, Venus, grew jealous of her, and told her son Cupid to punish the beautiful girl. The King, her father, was told that he had offended the gods, and must be punished by the wedding of his lovely daughter to a terrible flying serpent. He must dress her as a bride and carry her to the top of a terrible crag to await her monstrous bridegroom.’
    ‘Someone will come along and kill the dragon,’ said Edith.
    ‘Not in this story,’ said Matty Crompton.
    Miss Mead rocked herself to and fro in her chair, eyes part-closed, and continued.
    ‘So there the poor girl was, up on a cliff, in all her laces and flowery wreaths and pretty pearls. She was very unhappy, but after a time she noticed that all her garments were being moved by the gentle breezes, which finally lifted her and carried her far away to a lovely palace, with marble halls, and silk hangings, and golden cups and delicious fruits to eat, and
no one to be seen anywhere
. She was all alone in the rich luxury. But she was waited on by unseen hands, and heard unseen musicians playing, and did not need to lift a finger for herself—her very wishes were instantly answered. When she finally came to rest for the night, a voice of great sweetness and gentleness told her that he was her new husband, and would try to make her happy, if she would only trust him. And she knew she
could
trust him, so beautiful a voice could not belong to anything harmful. So they were happy together and her