"Kerry," said my mother gravely, "is a most important personage. He's John Flint's bodyguard. He doesn't actually sleep in his master's bed, because he has one of his own right next it. Clelie was horrified at first. She said they'd be eating together next, but the b.u.t.terfly Man reminded her that Kerry likes dog-biscuit and he doesn't. I figure that in the order of his affections the b.u.t.terfly Man ranks Kerry first, Armand and myself next, and Laurence a close third."

"Oh, Laurence," said Mary Virginia. "I'll be so glad to see Laurence again, if only to quarrel with him. Is he just as logical as ever? Has he given the sun a black eye with his sling-shot? My father's always praising Laurence in his letters."

Now my mother adores Laurence. She patterns upon this model every young man she meets, and if they are not Laurence-sized she does not include them in her good graces. But she seldom lifts her voice in praise of her favorite. She is far, far too wise.

"Laurence generally looks in upon us during the evening, if he is not too busy," she said, non-committally. "You see, people are beginning to find out what a really fine lawyer Laurence is, so cases are coming to him steadily."

The trunks had arrived, and Mary Virginia changed into white, in which she glowed and sparkled like a fire opal. We three dined together, and as she became more and more animated, a pink flush stole into her rather pale cheeks and her eyes deepened and darkened. She was vividly alive. One could see why Mary Virginia was cla.s.sed as a great beauty, although, strictly speaking, she was no such thing. But she had that compelling charm which one simply cannot express in words. It was there, and you felt it. She did not take your heart by storm, w.i.l.l.ynilly. You watched her, and presently you gave her your heart willingly, delighted that a creature so lovely and so unaffected and worth loving had crossed your path.

She chatted with my mother about that world which the older woman had once graced, and my mother listened without a shade to darken her smooth forehead. But I do not think I ever so keenly appreciated the many sacrifices she had made for me, until that night.

The autumn evening had grown chilly, and we had a fire in the clean-swept fireplace. The old bra.s.s dogs sparkled in the blaze, and the shadows flickered and danced on the walls, and across the faces of De Rance portraits; the pleasant room was full of a ruddy, friendly glow. My mother sat in her low rocker, making something or other out of pink and white wools for the baby upstairs. Mary Virginia, at the old square piano, sang for us. She had a charming voice, carefully cultivated and sweet, and she played with great feeling.

Kerry barked at the gate, as he always does when home is reached. My mother, dropping her work, ran to the window which gives upon the garden, and called. A moment later the b.u.t.terfly Man, with Laurence just back of him, and Kerry squeezing in between them, stood in the door. Mary Virginia, lips parted, eyes alight, hands outstretched, arose. The light of the whole room seemed not so much to gather upon her, as to radiate from her.

The dog reached her first. Outdoor exercise, careful diet, perfect grooming, had kept Kerry in fine shape. His age told only in an added dignity, a slower movement.

The girl went down on her knees, and hugged him. Pitache, aroused by Kerry's unwonted demonstrations, circled about them, rushing in every now and then to bestow an indiscriminate lick.

"Why, it's Mary Virginia!" exclaimed Laurence, and helped her to her feet. The two regarded each other, mutually appraising. He towered above her, head and shoulders, and I thought with great satisfaction that, go where she would, she could nowhere find a likelier man than this same Laurence of ours. Like David in his youth, he was ruddy and of a beautiful countenance.

"Why, Laurence! What a Jack-the-Giant-killer! Mercy, how big the boy's grown!"

"Why, Mary Virginia! What a heart-smasher! Mercy, how pretty the girl's grown!" he came back, holding her hand and looking down at her with equally frank delight. "When I remember the pigtailed, leggy, tonguey minx that used to fetch me clumps over the head--and then regard this beatific vision--I'm afraid I'll wake up and you'll be gone!"

"If you'll kindly give me back my hand, I might be induced to fetch you another clump or two, just to prove my reality," she suggested, with a delightful hint of the old truculence.

"'T is she! This is indeed none other than our long-lost child!"

burbled Laurence. "Lordy, I wish I could tell her how more than good it is to see her again--and to see her as she is!"

Now all this time John Flint had stood in the doorway; and when my mother beckoned him forward, he came, I fancied, a bit unwillingly.

His limp was for once painfully apparent, and whether from the day-long tramp, or from some slight indisposition, he was very pale; it showed under his deep tan.

But I was proud of him. His manner had a pleasant shyness, which was a tribute to the young girl's beauty. It had as well a simple dignity.

And one was impressed by the fine and powerful physique of him, so lean and springy, so boyishly slim about the hips and waist, so deeply stamped with clean living of days in the open, of nights under the stars. The features had thinned and sharpened, and his red beard became him; the hair thinning on the temples increased the breadth of the forehead, and behind his gla.s.ses the piercing blue eyes--something like an eagle's eyes--were clear, direct, and kind. He wore his clothes well, with a sort of careless carefulness, more like an Englishman than an American, who is always welldressed, but rather gives the impression of being conscious of it.

Mary Virginia's lips parted, her eyes widened, for a fraction of a second. But if, remembering him as she had first seen and known him, she was astonished to find him as he was now, she gave no further outward sign. Instead, she gave him her hand as to an equal, and in a few gracious words let him know that she knew and was proud of what he had done and what he was yet to do. She repeated, too, with a pretty air of personal triumph, the old n.o.bleman's praise. Indeed, it had been he who had told her of the book, which he had lately purchased and studied, she said. And oh, hadn't she just _swelled_ with pride!

She had been that conceited!

"You don't know how much obliged to you I should be, for if he hadn't accidentally learned I was from Appleboro, the town in which dwelt his most greatly prized correspondent--that's what he said, Mr.

Flint!--why, I'm sure he wouldn't have noticed me any more than he noticed any other girl--which is, not at all; he being a toplofty and serious Personage addicted to people who do things and write things, particularly things about things that crawl and fly. And if he hadn't noticed me so pointedly--he actually came to see us!--why, I shouldn't have had such a perfectly gorgeous time. It was a great feather in my cap," she crowed. "Everybody envied me desperately!" She managed to make us understand that this was really a compliment to the b.u.t.terfly Man, not to herself.

"If the little book served you for one minute it was well worth the four years it took me to gather the materials together and write it,"

said he, pleasantly. And even the courtly Hunter couldn't have said it with a manlier grace.

"Mary Virginia," said Laurence slyly, "when you've had your fill of bugs, make him show you the Book of Obituaries. He thereby stands revealed in his true colors. Why, he made me buy the old _Clarion_ and hire Jim Dabney to run it, so his supply of mortuary gems shouldn't be cut off untimely. To-day he culled this one:

Phileola dear, we cry because thou hast gone and left us, But well we know it is a merciful heaven which has bereft us.

We tried five doctors and everything else we knew of you to save, But alas, nothing did you any good, and to-day you are in your grave!

He's got it in his pocket now. Dabney calls him Mister Bones," grinned Laurence.

My mother looked profoundly uncomfortable. The b.u.t.terfly Man reddened guiltily under her reproachful glance, but Mary Virginia giggled irrepressibly.

"I choose the Book of Obituaries first!" said she promptly, with dancing eyes. Flint drew a breath of relief.

He sat by silently enough, while Laurence and Madame and Mary Virginia talked of everything under heaven. His whole manner was that of an amused, tolerant, sympathetic listener--a manner which spurs conversation to its happiest and best. Not for nothing had Major Cartwright called him the most discriminatin' listener in Carolina.

"Oh, by the way, Flint! Hunter came by this morning to see Dabney. He is going to give a series of Plain Talks to Workingmen this winter, and of course he wants the _Clarion_ to cover them. What do you think, Padre?"

"I think they will be eminently sensible talks and well worth listening to," said I promptly.

The b.u.t.terfly Man smiled crookedly, and shot me a freighted glance.

"Of course," said Laurence, easily. "Where's your father these days, Mary Virginia?"

"He was at the plantation this morning, but he'll be here to-morrow, because I wired him to come. I've just got to have him for awhile, business or no business."

"You did me a favor, then. I want to see him, too."

"Anything very particular?"

"Politics."

"How silly! You know very well he never meddles with politics, thank goodness! He thinks he has something better to do."

"That's just what I want to see him about," said Laurence.

"You mentioned a--a Mr. Hunter." Mary Virginia spoke after a short pause. "This is the first time I've heard of any Mr. Hunter in Appleboro. Who is Mr. Hunter?"

"Inglesby's right-bower, and the king-card of the pack," said Laurence promptly.

"One of them which set up golden images in high places and make all Israel for to sin," said my mother. "_That's_ what Howard Hunter is!"

"Oh, ... Howard Hunter!" said she. "What sort of a person may he be?

And what is he doing here in Appleboro?"

We told her according to our lights. Only the b.u.t.terfly Man sat silent and imperturbable.

"And you'll meet him everywhere," finished my mother. "He's everything a man should be to the naked eye, and I sincerely hope,"

she added piously, "that you won't like him at all."

Mary Virginia leaned back in her chair, and glanced thoughtfully down at the slim ringless hands clasped in her white lap.

"No," said she, as if to herself. "There couldn't by any chance be two such men in this one world. That is he, himself." And she lifted her head, and glanced at my mother, with a level and proud look. "I think I have met this Mr. Hunter," said she, smiling curiously. "And if that is true, your hope is realized, p't.i.te Madame. I shan't."