The last time that
wine had been opened was the day I was ordained. "Armand, go and bring
John Flint."

When I reached his rooms Kerry was whining over a huddled form on the
porch steps. John Flint lay prone, his arms outstretched, horribly
suggestive of one crucified. At my step he struggled upright. I had my
arms about him in another moment.

"Are you hurt? sick? John, John, my son, what is it? What is it?"

"No, no, I'm all right. I--was just a little shaky for the minute.
There, there, don't you be scared, father." But his voice shook, and
the hand I held was icy cold.

"My son, my dear son, what is wrong with you?"

He controlled himself with a great effort. "Oh, I've been a little off
my feed of late, father, that's all. See, I'm perfectly all right,
now." And he squared his shoulders and tried to speak in his natural
voice.

"My mother wanted you to come over for a few minutes, there's
something you're to know. But if you don't feel well enough--"

He seemed to brace himself. "Maybe I know it already. However, I'm
quite able to walk over and hear--anything I'm to be told," he said,
composedly.

In the lighted parlor his face showed up pale and worn, and his eyes
hollow. But his smile was ready, his voice steady, and the hand which
received the wine Mary Virginia herself brought him, did not tremble.

"It is to our great, great happiness we wish you to drink, old
friend," said Laurence. Intoxicated with his new joy, glowing,
shining, the boy was magnificent.

The Butterfly Man turned and looked at him; steadily, deliberately, a
long, searching, critical look, as if measuring him by a new standard.
Laurence stood the test. Then the man's eyes came back to the girl,
rose-colored, radiant, star-eyed, and lingered upon her. He arose, and
held up the glass in which our old wine seemed to leap upward in
little amber-colored flames.

"You'll understand," said the Butterfly Man, "that I haven't the
words handy to my tongue to say what's in my heart. I reckon I'd have
to be God for awhile, to make all I wish for you two come true." There
was in look and tone and manner something so sweet and reverent that
we were touched and astonished.

When my mother had peremptorily sent Laurence home to the judge, and
carried Mary Virginia off to talk the rest of the night through, I
went back to his rooms with John Flint, in spite of the lateness of
the hour: for I was uneasy about him.

I think my nearness soothed h