ir, and glanced thoughtfully down
at the slim ringless hands clasped in her white lap.

"No," said she, as if to herself. "There couldn't by any chance be two
such men in this one world. That is he, himself." And she lifted her
head, and glanced at my mother, with a level and proud look. "I think
I have met this Mr. Hunter," said she, smiling curiously. "And if that
is true, your hope is realized, p'tite Madame. I shan't."

CHAPTER XII

JOHN FLINT, GENTLEMAN

Almost up to Christmas the weather had been so mild and warm that
folks lived out of doors. Girls clothed like the angels in white
raiment fluttered about and blessed the old streets with their fresh
and rosy faces. In the bright sunshine the flowers seemed to have lost
all thought of winter; they forgot to fade; and roses rioted in every
garden as if it were still summer. Nobody but the Butterfly Man
grumbled at this springlike balminess, and he only because he was
impatient to resume experiments carried over from year to year--the
effect of varying degrees of natural cold upon the colors of
butterflies whose chrysalids were exposed to it. He generally used the
chrysalids of the Papilio Turnus, whose females are dimorphic, that
is, having two distinct forms. He did not care to resort to artificial
freezing, preferring to allow Nature herself to work for him. And the
jade repaid him, as usual, by showing him what she could do but
refusing to divulge the moving why she did it. She gave him for his
pains sometimes a light, and sometimes a dark butterfly, with
different degrees of blurred or enlarged and vivid markings, from
chrysalids subjected to exactly the same amount of exposure.

The Butterfly Man was burning to complete his notes, already assuming
the proportions of that very exact and valuable book they were
afterward to become. He chafed at the enforced delay, and wished
himself at the North Pole.

In the meantime, having nothing else on hand just then, it occurred to
him to put some of these notes, covering the most interesting and
curious of the experiments, into papers which the general run of folks
might like to read. Dabney had been after him for some time to do some
such work as this for the _Clarion_.

I think Flint himself was genuinely surprised when he read over those
enchanting papers, though he did not then and never has learned to
appreciate their unique charm and value. Instead, however, of sending
them to Dabney, he thought the