mething
like an eagle's eyes--were clear, direct, and kind. He wore his
clothes well, with a sort of careless carefulness, more like an
Englishman than an American, who is always welldressed, but rather
gives the impression of being conscious of it.

Mary Virginia's lips parted, her eyes widened, for a fraction of a
second. But if, remembering him as she had first seen and known him,
she was astonished to find him as he was now, she gave no further
outward sign. Instead, she gave him her hand as to an equal, and in a
few gracious words let him know that she knew and was proud of what he
had done and what he was yet to do. She repeated, too, with a pretty
air of personal triumph, the old nobleman's praise. Indeed, it had
been he who had told her of the book, which he had lately purchased
and studied, she said. And oh, hadn't she just _swelled_ with pride!
She had been that conceited!

"You don't know how much obliged to you I should be, for if he hadn't
accidentally learned I was from Appleboro, the town in which dwelt his
most greatly prized correspondent--that's what he said, Mr.
Flint!--why, I'm sure he wouldn't have noticed me any more than he
noticed any other girl--which is, not at all; he being a toplofty and
serious Personage addicted to people who do things and write things,
particularly things about things that crawl and fly. And if he hadn't
noticed me so pointedly--he actually came to see us!--why, I shouldn't
have had such a perfectly gorgeous time. It was a great feather in my
cap," she crowed. "Everybody envied me desperately!" She managed to
make us understand that this was really a compliment to the Butterfly
Man, not to herself.

"If the little book served you for one minute it was well worth the
four years it took me to gather the materials together and write it,"
said he, pleasantly. And even the courtly Hunter couldn't have said it
with a manlier grace.

"Mary Virginia," said Laurence slyly, "when you've had your fill of
bugs, make him show you the Book of Obituaries. He thereby stands
revealed in his true colors. Why, he made me buy the old _Clarion_ and
hire Jim Dabney to run it, so his supply of mortuary gems shouldn't be
cut off untimely. To-day he culled this one:

Phileola dear, we cry because thou hast gone and left us,
But well we know it is a merciful heaven which has bereft us.
We tried five doctors and everything else we knew of you to save,
But alas, nothing did you