"And the Butterfly Man," I added, firmly. Well knowing none of us could keep such news from him.
"As for me," said my mother, gloriously reckless, "I shall open one of the two bottles of our great-grandfather's wine!" The last time that wine had been opened was the day I was ordained. "Armand, go and bring John Flint."
When I reached his rooms Kerry was whining over a huddled form on the porch steps. John Flint lay prone, his arms outstretched, horribly suggestive of one crucified. At my step he struggled upright. I had my arms about him in another moment.
"Are you hurt? sick? John, John, my son, what is it? What is it?"
"No, no, I'm all right. I—was just a little shaky for the minute. There, there, don't you be scared, father." But his voice shook, and the hand I held was icy cold.
"My son, my dear son, what is wrong with you?"
He controlled himself with a great effort. "Oh, I've been a little off my feed of late, father, that's all. See, I'm perfectly all right, now." And he squared his shoulders and tried to speak in his natural voice.
"My mother wanted you to come over for a few minutes, there's something you're to know. But if you don't feel well enough—"
He seemed to brace himself. "Maybe I know it already. However, I'm quite able to walk over and hear—anything I'm to be told," he said, composedly.
In the lighted parlor his face showed up pale and worn, and his eyes hollow. But his smile was ready, his voice steady, and the hand which received the wine Mary Virginia herself brought him, did not tremble.