unny spaces, and its shrubs and flowers, and trees, to where,
over in the sky a pillar of smoke rose steadily, endlessly, and
merged into a cloud overhanging the quiet little town.

"The pillar of cloud by day," said he "that leads the children--" He
stopped, and the whimsical smile faded from his face; his jaw set.

The bluejay, having exhausted his vocabulary of jay-ribaldry,
screeched one last outrageous bit of billingsgate into Flint's ears,
shut up his tail like a fan, and darted off, a streak of blue and
gray. The Butterfly Man's eyes followed him smilelessly; then they
came back and dwelt for a moment upon the ruined nest and the
fluttering mother-bird, still vexing the ear with her shrill
lamentable futile protests. From her his eyes went, out over the trees
and flowers to that pillar mounting lazily and inevitably into the
sky. For a long moment he stared at that, too, fixedly. After an
interval he clenched his hand upon his stick and struck the ground.

"_Nothing's_ got any business to break up a nest! I'd rather sit up
all night and watch than see what I've just seen and listen to that
mother-thing calling to Something that's far-off and stone deaf and
can't hear nor heed. Why, the little birds haven't got even the chance
to get themselves born, much less grow up and sing! I--Say, you two go
on a bit. I feel mighty bad about this. I'd been watching her. She
knew me. She let me feed her. If only I'd thought about the jay, why,
I might have saved her. But just when she needed me I wasn't there!"
He turned abruptly, and strode off toward his own rooms. Kerry
followed with a drooping head and tail. But Laurence looked after him
hopefully.

"Padre, the Butterfly Man's seen something this morning that will
sink to the bottom of his soul and stay there: didn't you see his
eyes? Now, which of those two have taught him the most--the happy
thief and murderer, or the innocent unhappy victim? The bluejay's not
a whit the worse for it, remember; in fact, he's all the better off,
for his stomach is full and his mischief satisfied, and that's all
that ever worries a bluejay. And there isn't any redress for the
mother-bird. The thing's done, and can't be undone. But between them
they've shown John Flint something that forces a man to take sides.
Doesn't the bluejay deserve some little credit for that? And is there
_ever_ any redress for the mother-bird, Padre?"

"Why, the Church teaches--" I began.

Laurence nodded. "