"Yes! Live! That is a bright way of putting it. Live! live! The Beetle is—going to live!"
Priscilla looked about at the rich comfort of the room, thought of what it meant to the delicate cripple crouching toward the blaze, his deep eyes flame-touched and wonderful. Then she looked at Master Farwell, whose lips were trembling.
"He—he calls that—living!" he said slowly. "Tell him, Priscilla, of the bareness and hardness of the life. I have tried to, but he will not listen."
The tears, the ready, easy tears filled Priscilla's eyes, and her heart throbbed until it hurt.
"He will love the hemlocks and the deep red rocks," she said, as if speaking to herself; "he will love the Channel and the little islands, he will love the woods—and the wind does not blow hard there—he will be glad of that."
"But the ugly, wretched bareness of my hut, Priscilla! For heaven's sake, make him see that!"
"But the—fireplace, Master Farwell!"
"And—the friend beside it!" Boswell broke in; "and no more loneliness. A beetle that has crawled in the Garden so long will thank God for a real place—of its own. 'Tis but a change of scene for the Property Man."
"I love the Garden!" murmured Priscilla, sitting between the two men, her clasped hands outstretched toward the fire, which was smouldering ruddily.
"That is because you have wings, Butterfly," Boswell whispered.