"Don't be unkind, Melissa," said a young bee, impressed by the
chaste folds of the Wax-moth's wing, which hid her ceaseless
egg-dropping.

"I haven't done anything," Melissa answered. "She's doing it
all."

"Ah, don't let your conscience reproach you later, but when
you've killed me, write me, at least, as one that loved her
fellow-worker."

Laying at every sob, the Wax-moth backed into a crowd of young
bees, and left Melissa bewildered and annoyed. So she lifted up
her little voice in the darkness and cried, "Stores!" till a gang
of cell-fillers hailed her, and she left her load with them.

"I'm afraid I foul-brooded you just now," said a voice over her
shoulder. "I'd been on the Gate for three hours, and one would
foul-brood the Queen herself after that. No offence meant."

"None taken," Melissa answered cheerily. "I shall be on Guard
myself, some day. What's next to do?"

"There's a rumour of Death's Head Moths about. Send a gang of
youngsters to the Gate, and tell them to narrow it in with a
couple of stout scrap-wax pillars. It'll make the Hive hot, but
we can't have Death's Headers in the middle of our honey-flow."

"My Only Wings! I should think not!" Melissa had all a sound