as by far the most astonishing aberrant I have ever seen, before
or since. The Turnus is perhaps the most beautiful of our butterflies,
and this off-color was larger than the normal, and more irregularly
and oddly and brilliantly colored. Their natural coloring is gorgeous
enough; but hers was like a seraph's head-jewels.

I have her yet, with the date of her capture written under her. She is
the only one of all our butterflies I claim personally. The gold has
never been minted that could buy that Turnus.

"I had the station agent wire for my grip," said Flint casually. "And
I gave the darky I knocked down fifty cents to soothe his feelings. He
offered to let me do it again for a quarter." His eyes roved over the
pleasant workroom with its books and cabinets, its air of homely
comfort; through the open door one glimpsed the smaller bedroom, the
crucifix on the white wall. He dropped his hand on Kerry's head, close
against his knee, and drew a sharp breath.

"Father," said he, quietly, and looked at me with steady eyes, "you
don't need to be afraid for me any more as you had to be to-day.
To-day's the last of my--my dumfoolishness." After a moment he added:

"Remember what that little girl said when she gave me her dog? Well, I
reckon she was right. I reckon I'm here for keeps. I reckon, father,
that you and I do belong."

"Yes," said I; and looked over the cases of our butterflies, and the
books we had gathered, and the table where we worked and studied
together. "Yes; you and I belong." And I left him with Kerry's head on
his knees, and Kerry's eyes adoring him, and went over to the Parish
House to tell Madame that John Flint had changed his mind and wouldn't
go North just now, because an aberrant Turnus had beguiled him.

For a moment my mother looked profoundly disappointed.

"Are you sure," she asked, "that this doesn't mean a loss to him,
Armand?"

"Yes, I am sure."

She watched my eyes, and of a sudden she reached out, caught my hand,
and squeezed it. Her face softened with sympathetic and tolerant
understanding, but she asked no questions, made no comment. If Solomon
had been lucky enough to marry my mother, I am sure he would never
have plagued himself with the nine hundred and ninety-nine. But then,
neither would he have written Proverbs.

Neither the Butterfly Man nor I have ever referred to that morning's
incident; the witness of it we cherish; otherwise it pleases us to
ignore it as if it had nev