I grasped the edge of the table; his knuckles showed white beside mine.
"I must work the works of him
that sent me, while it is day."
His eyes grew larger and deeper. A sort of inward light, a serene and joyous acceptance and assurance, flowed into them. I that had dared to be despondent felt a sense of awe. The Voice that had once spoken above the Mercy Seat and between the wings of the cherubim was speaking now in immortal words between, the wings of a butterfly.
She was poising herself for her first flight, the bright and lovely Lady of the Sky. Now she spread her wings flat, as a fan is unfurled. And now she had lifted them clear and uncovered her message. The Butterfly Man watched her, hanging absorbed upon her every movement. And he read, softly:
"I must work
... while it is day."
Lightly as a flower, a living and glorious flower, she lifted and launched herself into the air, flew straight and sure for the outside light, hung poised one gracious moment, and was gone.
He turned to me the sweetest, clearest eyes I have ever seen in a mortal countenance, the eyes of a little child. His face had caught a sort of secret beauty, that was never to leave it any more.
"Parson!" said the Butterfly Man, in a whisper that shook with the beating of his heart behind it: "Parson! Don't it beat hell?"
I rocked on my toes. Then I flung my arms around him, with a jubilant shout:
"It does! It does! Oh, Butterfly Man, by the grace and the glory and the wonder of God, it beats hell!"