uall to you in my cradle was--that I
cared, Laurence."

The young man's arms closed about her, and I saw the young mouths
meet. I saw more than that: I saw other figures steal out into the
moonlight and stand thus entwined, and one was the ghost of what once
was I. That other, lost Armand De Rance, looked at me wistfully with
his clear eyes; and I was very, very sorry for him, as one may be
poignantly sorry for the innocent, beautiful dead. My hand tightened
on my beads, and the feel of my cassock upon me, as a uniform,
steadied and sustained me.

Those two had drawn back a little into the shadows as if the night had
reached out its arms to them. Such a night belonged to such as these;
they invest it, lend it meaning, give it intelligible speech. As for
me, I was an old priest in an old cassock, with all his fond and
foolish old heart melting in his breast. Youth alone is eternal and
immortal. And as for love, it is of God.

"_As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without
end, Amen_." I had finished the decade. And then as one awakes from a
trance I rose softly and as softly crept back to the Parish House,
happy and at peace, because I had seen that which makes the morning
stars rejoice when they sing together.

"Armand," said my mother, sleepily, "is that you, dear? I must have
been nodding in my chair. Mary Virginia's just walked to the gate with
Laurence."

"My goodness," said she, half an hour later. "What on earth can that
child mean? Hadn't you better call her in, Armand?"

"No," said I, decidedly.

Laurence brought her back presently. There must have been something
electrical in the atmosphere, for my mother of a sudden sat bolt
upright in her chair. Women are like that. That is one of the reasons
why men are so afraid of them.

"Padre, and p'tite Madame," began Laurence, "you've been like a father
and mother to me--and--and--"

"And we thought you ought to know," said Mary Virginia.

"My children!" cried my mother, ecstatically, "it is the wish of my
heart! Always have I prayed our good God to let this happen--and you
see?"

"But it's a great secret: it's not to be _breathed_, yet," said Mary
Virginia.

"Except, of course, my father--" began Laurence.

"And the Butterfly Man," I added, firmly. Well knowing none of us
could keep such news from _him_.

"As for me," said my mother, gloriously reckless, "I shall open one of
the two bottles of our great-grandfather's wine!"