nd my mother, though she looked her
stark bewilderment, plagued me with no questions.

"She is in great trouble, and she needs you. Hurry."

Madame slid out of her bed and reached for her neatly folded garments.

"Wait in the hall, Armand; I will be with you in ten minutes." And she
was, wrapped and hatted.

Once in the workroom, she cast a deep and searching woman-glance at
the pale girl in the chair. Her face was so sweet with motherliness
and love and pity, and that profound comprehension the best women show
to each other, that I felt my throat contract. Gathered into Madame's
embrace, Mary Virginia clung to her old friend dumbly. Madame had but
one question:

"My child, have you told John Flint and my son what this trouble of
yours is?"

"Yes; I had to, I had to!"

"Thank the good God for that!" said my mother piously. "Now we will go
home, dearest, and you can sleep in peace--you have nothing more to
worry about!"

The clasp of the comforting arms, the sweet serenity of the mild eyes,
and above all the little lady's perfect confidence, aroused Mary
Virginia out of her torpor. She felt that she no longer stood alone
at the mercy of the merciless. Bundled in the wraps my mother had
provided, she paused at the door.

"I think you will forgive me any trouble I may cause you, because I am
sure all of you love me. And whatever comes, I will be brave enough to
face and to bear it. Padre, dear Padre, you understand, don't you?"

"My child, my darling child, I understand."

"I'll be back in half an hour, parson," the Butterfly Man remarked
meaningly. Then the three melted into the night.

Left alone, I was far from sharing Madame's simple faith in our
ability to untangle this miserable snarl. I knew now the temper of the
men we had to deal with. I also understood that in cases like this the
Southern trigger-finger is none too steady. Seen from a certain point
of view, if ever men deserved an unconditional and thorough killing,
these two did. Yet this homicidal specter turned me cold, for Mary
Virginia's sake.

For Eustis himself I could see nothing but ruin ahead, but I wished
passionately to help the dear girl who had come to me in her stress.
But what was one to do? How should one act?

I sat there dismally enough, my chin sunk upon my breast; for as a
plotter, a planner, a conspirator, I am a particularly hopeless
failure. I have no sense of intrigue, and the bare idea of plotting
reduces me to stupefa