"That didn't keep either of them from growing up a man and a woman.

Looks to me as if they were beginning to find it out, parson."

I considered his idea, and found it so eminently right, proper, and beautiful, that I smiled over it. "It would be ideal," I admitted.

"Her mother wouldn't agree with you, though her father might," he said dryly. And he asked:

"Ever had a hunch?"

"A presentiment, you mean?"

"No; a hunch. Well, I've got one. I've got a hunch there's trouble ahead for that girl."

This seemed so improbable, in the light of her fortunate days, that I smiled cheerfully.

"Well, if there should be,--here are you and I to stand by."

"Sure," said he, laconically, "that's all we're here for--to stand by."

Although it was January, the weather was again springlike. All day the air was like a golden wine, drenched in a golden sun. All day in the cedars' dark and vivid green the little wax-wings flew in and out, and everywhere the blackberry bramble that "would grace the parlors of heaven" was unfolding its crisp red leaves and white buds; and all the roads and woods were gay with the scarlet berries of the casida, which the robins love. And the nights were clear and still and starry, nights of a beauty so vital one sensed it as something alive.

Because Mary Virginia was to spend that night at the Parish House, Mrs. Eustis having been called away and the house for once free of guests, my mother had seized the occasion to call about her the youth in which her soul delighted. To-night she was as rosy and bright-eyed as any one of her girl-friends. She beamed when she saw the old rooms alive and alight with fresh and laughing faces and blithe figures.

There was Laurence, with that note in his voice, that light in his eyes, that glow and glory upon him, which youth alone knows; and Dabney, with his black hair, as usual, on end, and his intelligent eyes twinkling behind his gla.s.ses; and Claire Dexter, colored like a pearl set in a cl.u.s.ter of laughing girls; and Mary Virginia, all in white, so beautiful that she brought a mist to the eyes that watched her. All the other gay and charming figures seemed but attendants for this supremer loveliness, snow-white, rose-red, ebony-black, like the queen's child in the fairy-tale.

The b.u.t.terfly Man had obediently put in his appearance. With the effect which a really strong character produces, he was like an insistent deep undernote that dominates and gives meaning to a lighter and merrier melody. All this bright life surged, never away from, but always toward and around him. Youth claimed him, shared itself with him, gave him lavishly of its best, because he fascinated and ensnared its fresh imagination. Though he should live to be a thousand it would ever pay homage to some nameless magic quality of spirit which was his.

"Are you writing something new? Have you found another b.u.t.terfly?"

asked the young things, full of interest and respect.

Well, he _had_ promised a certain paper by a certain time, though what people could find to like so much in what he had to say about his insects--

"Because," said Dabney, "you create in us a new feeling for them.

They're living things with a right to their lives, and you show us what wonderful little lives most of them are. You bring them close to us in a way that doesn't disgust us. I guess, b.u.t.terfly Man, the truth is you've found a new way of preaching the old gospel of One Father and one life; and the common sense of common folks understands what you mean, thanks you for it, likes you for it, and--asks you to tell us some more."

"Whenever a real teacher appears, always the common people hear him gladly," said I, reflectively.

"Only," said Mary Virginia, quickly, "when the teacher himself is just as uncommon as he can be, Padre." She smiled at John Flint with a sincerity that honored him.

He stood abashed and silent before this nave appreciation. It was at once his greatest happiness and his deepest pain--that open admiration of these clean-souled youngsters.

When he had gone, I too slipped away, for the still white night outside called me. I went around to that favorite retreat of mine, the battered seat shut in among spireas and syringas. I like to say my rosary out of doors. The beads slipping through my fingers soothed me with their monotonous insistent pet.i.tion. Prayer brought me closer to the heart of the soft and shining night, and the big still stars.

_They shall perish, but thou shalt endure; yea, all of them shall wax old as a garment; as a vesture shalt thou change them, and they shall be changed; but thou art the same and thy years shall have no end_.

The surety of the beautiful words brought the great overshadowing Presence near me. And I fell into a half-revery, in which the hailmarys wove themselves in and out, like threads in a pattern.

Dreamily enough, I heard the youthful guests depart, in a gale of laughter and flute-like goodnights. And I noted, too, that no light as yet shone in the b.u.t.terfly Man's rooms. Well--he would hurl himself into the work to-morrow, probably, and clear it up in an hour or two.

He was like that.

My retreat was just off the path, and near the little gate between our grounds and Judge Mayne's. Thus, though I was completely hidden by the screening bushes and the shadow of the holly tree as well, I could plainly see the two who presently came down the bright open path. Of late it had given me a curious sense of comfort to see Laurence with Mary Virginia, and, I reflected, he had been her shadow recently. I liked that. His strength seemed to shield her from Hunter's ambiguous smile, from Inglesby's thoughts, even from her own mother's ambition.

I could see my girl's dear dark head outlined with a circle of moonlight as with a halo, and it barely reached my tall boy's shoulder. Her hand lay lightly on his arm, and he bent toward her, bringing his close-cropped brown head nearer hers. I couldn't have risen or spoken then, without interrupting them. I merely glanced out at them, smilingly, with my rosary in my finger.

I reached the end of a decade: "_As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be_--"

They stopped at the gate, and fell silent for a s.p.a.ce, the girl with her darling face uplifted. The fleecy wrap she wore fell about her slim shoulders in long lines, glinting with silver. She did not give the effect of remoteness, but of being near and dear and desirable and beautiful. The boy, looking upon her with his heart in his eyes, drew nearer.

"Mary Virginia," said he, eagerly and huskily and pa.s.sionately and timidly and hopefully and despairingly, "Mary Virginia, are you going to marry anybody?"

Mary Virginia came back from the stars in the night sky to the stars in the young man's eyes. "Why, yes, I hope I am," said she lightly enough, but one saw she had been startled. "What a funny boy you are, Laurence, to be sure! You don't expect me to remain a spinster, do you?"

"You are going to be married?" This time despair was uppermost.

"I most certainly am!" said Mary Virginia stoutly. "Why, I confided _that_ to you years and years and years ago! Don't you remember I always insisted he should have golden hair, and sea-blue eyes, and a cla.s.sic brow, and a beautiful willingness to go away somewhere and die of a broken heart if I ordered him to?"

"Who is it?"

"Who is who?" she parried provokingly.

"The chap you're going to marry?"

Mary Virginia appeared to reflect deeply and anxiously. She put out a foot, with the eternal feminine gesture, and dug a neat little hole in the graveled walk with her satin toe.

"Laurence," said she. "I'm going to tell you the truth. The truth is, Laurence, that I simply hate to have to tell you the truth."

"Mary Virginia!" he stammered wretchedly. "You hate to have to tell _me_ the truth? Oh, my dear, why? Why?"

"Because."

"But because why?"

"Because," said the dear hussy, demurely, "I don't know."

Laurence's arms fell to his sides, helplessly; he craned his neck and stared.

"Mary Virginia!" said he, in a breathless whisper.

Mary Virginia nodded. "It's really none of your business, you know,"

she explained sweetly; "but as you've asked me, why, I'll tell you.

That same question plagues and fascinates me, too, Laurence. Why, just consider! Here's a whole big, big world full of men--tall men, short men, lean men, fat men, silly men, wise men, ugly men, handsome men, sad men, glad men, good men, bad men, rich men, poor men,--oh, all sorts and kinds and conditions and complexions of men: any one of whom I might wake up some day and find myself married to: and I don't know which one! It delights and terrifies and fascinates and amuses and puzzles me when I begin to think about it. Here I've got to marry Somebody and I don't know any more than Adam's housecat who and where that Somebody is, and he might pop from around the corner at me, any minute! It makes the thing so much more interesting, so much more like a big risky game of guess, when you don't know, don't you think?"

"No: it makes you miserable," said Laurence, briefly.

"But I'm not miserable at all!"

"You're not, because you don't have to be. But I am!"

"You? Why, Laurence! Why should _you_ be miserable?" Her voice lost its blithe lightness; it was a little faint. She said hastily, without waiting for his reply: "I guess I'd better run in. It was silly of me to walk to the gate with you at this hour. I think Madame's calling me. Goodnight, Laurence."