upward into the wings to give them power and expansion. We had
seen the same thing a thousand and one times before, we should see it
a thousand and one times again. But I do not think either of us could
ever forego the delight of watching a butterfly's wings shaping
themselves for flight, and growing into something of beauty and of
wonder. The lovely miracle is ever new to us.

She was a big butterfly, big even for the greatest of Carolina
swallow-tails; not the dark dimorphic form, but the true Tiger Turnus
itself, her barred yellow upper wings edged with black enamel indented
with red gold, her tailed lower wings bordered with a wider band of
black, and this not only set with lunettes of gold but with purple
amethysts, and a ruby on the upper and lower edges. Her wings moved
rhythmically; a constant quivering agitated her, and her antennae with
their flattened clubs seemed to be sending and receiving wireless
messages from the shining world outside.

And as the wings had dried and grown firmer in the mild warm current
of air and the bright sunlight, she moved them with a wider and bolder
sweep. The heavy, unwieldy body, thinned by the expulsion of those
currents driven upward to give flying-power to the wings, had taken on
a slim and tapering grace. She had reached her fairy perfection. She
was ready now for flight and light and love and freedom and the
uncharted pathways of the air, ready to carry out the design of the
Creator who had fashioned her so wondrously and so beautiful, and had
sent ahead of her the flowers for that marvelous tongue of hers to
sip.

Waiting still, opening and closing her exquisite wings, trying them,
spreading them flat, the splendid swallow-tail clung to the page of
the book open at the Gospel of John. And I, idly enough, leaned
forward, and saw between the opening and the closing wings, words. The
which John Flint, bending forward beside me, likewise saw. "_Work_,"
flashed out. And on a lower line, "_while it is day_."

I grasped the edge of the table; his knuckles showed white beside
mine.

"_I must work the works of him
that sent me, while it is day._"

His eyes grew larger and deeper. A sort of inward light, a serene and
joyous acceptance and assurance, flowed into them. I that had dared to
be despondent felt a sense of awe. The Voice that had once spoken
above the Mercy Seat and between the wings of the cherubim was
speaking now in immortal words between, the wings of