ject
we do not like to discuss, "what you were up against ... parson, I've
thought you must have been caught and crucified yourself, and learned
things on the cross, and that's why you held on to me. But with the
kids, it was different--particularly the little girl. The first thing
I ever got from her was a lovely look, the first time ever I set eyes
on her she came with an underwing moth. I'd be a poor sort that
wouldn't be willing to be spilt like water and scattered like dust, if
she needed me now, wouldn't I?"

"But," said I, perplexed, "what can you do? A young lady has seen fit
to break her engagement; young ladies often see fit to do that, my
dear fellow. This isn't an uncommon case. Also, one doesn't interfere
in a lady's private affairs, not even when one is an old priest who
has loved her since her childhood, nor yet a Butterfly Man who is her
devoted friend. Don't you see?"

"I see there's something wrong," said he, doggedly.

"Perhaps. But that doesn't give one the right to pry into something
she evidently doesn't wish to reveal," I told him.

"I suppose," said he, heavily, "you are right. But if you hear
anything, let me know, won't you?"

I promised; but I found out nothing, save that it had not been Mrs.
Eustis who influenced her daughter's action. This came out in a call
Mrs. Eustis made at the Parish House.

"My dear," she told my mother, "when she told me she had broken that
engagement, I was astounded! But I can't say I wasn't pleased.
Laurence is a dear boy; and his family's as good as ours--no one can
take that away from the Maynes. But Mary Virginia should have done
better.

"I quarreled with her, argued with her, pleaded with her. I cried and
cried. But she's James Eustis to the life--you might as well try to
move the Rock of Gibraltar. Then one morning she came to my room and
told me she found she couldn't marry Laurence! And she had already
told him so, and broken her engagement, and I wasn't to ask her any
questions. I didn't. I was too glad."

"And--Laurence--?" asked my mother, ironically.

"Laurence? Laurence is a _man_. Men get over that sort of thing. I've
known a man to be perfectly mad over his wife--and marry, six months
after her death. They're like that. They always get over it. It's
their nature."

"Let us hope, then, for Laurence's peace of mind," said my mother,
"that he'll get over it--like all the rest of his sex. Though I
shouldn't call Laurence fickle, or faithles