ed of him, too, and said so with her usual openness.
Westmoreland was known to be his firm friend; nobody could forget the
incident of those butterflies in the doctor's hat! Major Cartwright
liked him so much that he even bore with the dogs, though Pitache in
particular must have sorely strained his patience. Pitache cherished
the notion that it was his duty to pass upon all visitors to the
Butterfly Man's rooms. For some reason, known only to himself, the
little dog also cherished a deep-seated grudge against the major, the
very sound of whose voice outside the door was enough to send him
howling under the table, where he lay with his head on his paws, a
wary eye cocked balefully, and his snarls punctuating the Major's
remarks.

"He smells my Unitarian soul, confound him!" said the major. "An' he's
so orthodox he thinks he'll get chucked out of dog-heaven, if he
doesn't show his disapproval."

The little dog did finally learn to accept the major's presence
without outward protest; though the major declared that Pitache always
hung down his tail when he came and hung it up when he left!

The Butterfly Man accepted whatever friendliness was proffered without
diffidence, but with no change in his natural reserve. You could tell
him anything: he listened, made few comments and gave no advice, was
absolutely non-shockable, and never repeated what he heard. The
unaffected simplicity of his manner delighted my mother. She said you
couldn't tell her--there was good blood in that man, and he had been
more than any mere tramp before he fell into our hands! Why, just
observe his manner, if you please! It was the same to everybody; he
had, one might think, no sense whatever of caste, creed, age, sex, or
color; and yet he neither gave offense nor received it.

Those outbursts which had so terrified me at first came at rare and
rarer intervals. If I were to live for a thousands years I should
never be able to forget the last and worst; which fell upon him
suddenly and without warning, on a fine morning while he sat on the
steps of his verandah, and I beside him with my Book of Hours in my
hand. In between the Latin prayers I sensed pleasantly the light wind
that rustled the vines, and how the Mayne bees went grumbling from
flower to flower, and how one single bird was singing to himself over
and over the self-same song, as if he loved it; and how the sunlight
fell in a great square, like a golden carpet, in front of the steps.