en called away and the house for once free of
guests, my mother had seized the occasion to call about her the youth
in which her soul delighted. To-night she was as rosy and bright-eyed
as any one of her girl-friends. She beamed when she saw the old rooms
alive and alight with fresh and laughing faces and blithe figures.
There was Laurence, with that note in his voice, that light in his
eyes, that glow and glory upon him, which youth alone knows; and
Dabney, with his black hair, as usual, on end, and his intelligent
eyes twinkling behind his glasses; and Claire Dexter, colored like a
pearl set in a cluster of laughing girls; and Mary Virginia, all in
white, so beautiful that she brought a mist to the eyes that watched
her. All the other gay and charming figures seemed but attendants for
this supremer loveliness, snow-white, rose-red, ebony-black, like the
queen's child in the fairy-tale.

The Butterfly Man had obediently put in his appearance. With the
effect which a really strong character produces, he was like an
insistent deep undernote that dominates and gives meaning to a lighter
and merrier melody. All this bright life surged, never away from, but
always toward and around him. Youth claimed him, shared itself with
him, gave him lavishly of its best, because he fascinated and ensnared
its fresh imagination. Though he should live to be a thousand it would
ever pay homage to some nameless magic quality of spirit which was
his.

"Are you writing something new? Have you found another butterfly?"
asked the young things, full of interest and respect.

Well, he _had_ promised a certain paper by a certain time, though what
people could find to like so much in what he had to say about his
insects--

"Because," said Dabney, "you create in us a new feeling for them.
They're living things with a right to their lives, and you show us
what wonderful little lives most of them are. You bring them close to
us in a way that doesn't disgust us. I guess, Butterfly Man, the truth
is you've found a new way of preaching the old gospel of One Father
and one life; and the common sense of common folks understands what
you mean, thanks you for it, likes you for it, and--asks you to tell
us some more."

"Whenever a real teacher appears, always the common people hear him
gladly," said I, reflectively.

"Only," said Mary Virginia, quickly, "when the teacher himself is just
as uncommon as he can be, Padre." She smiled at John Flint with