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 glasses; and Claire Dexter, colored like a pearl set in a cluster 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 Butterfly 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 butterfly?" 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, Butterfly 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 naïve 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 petition. 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.