"Oh, why, why, why?" burst out the boy, in a gust of acute torment. "For God's sake, why? Think of her eyes and her mouth, Padre—and her forehead like a saint's—No, she's not false. God never made such eyes as hers untruthful. I believe in her. I've got to believe in her. I tell you, I belong to her, body and soul." He began to walk up and down the room, and his shoulders twitched, as if a lash were laid over them. "I could forgive her for not loving me, if she doesn't love me and found it out, and said so. Women change, do they not? But—to take a man that loves her—and tear his living soul to shreds and tatters—
"If she's a liar and a jilt, who and what am I to believe? Why should she do it, Padre—to me that love her? Oh, my God, think of it: to be betrayed by the best beloved! No, I can't think it. This isn't just any light girl: this is Mary Virginia!"
I put my hand on his shoulder. He is a head over me, and once again as broad, perhaps. We two fell into step. I did not attempt to counsel or console.
"Here I come like a whining kid, Padre," said he, remorsefully, "piling my troubles upon your shoulders that carry such burdens already. Forgive me!"
"I shouldn't be able to forgive you if you didn't come," said I. Up and down the little room, up and down, the two of us.
Came a light tap at the door. The Butterfly Man's head followed it.
"Didn't I hear Laurence talking?" asked he, smiling. The smile froze at sight of the boy's face. He closed the door, and leaned against it.
"What's wrong with her?" he asked, quickly. It did not occur to us to question his right to ask, or to wonder how he knew.
In a dull voice Laurence told him. He held out his hand for the note, read it in silence, and handed it back.
"What do you make of it?" I asked.