eyes. From the Mayne kitchen-steps came, faintly,
Daddy January's sweet quavering old voice:

"--Gwine tuh climb up higher 'n' higher,
Some uh dese days--"

John Flint, silent, depressed, with folded lips and somber eyes,
hobbled about awkwardly, savagely training himself to use the crutches
Westmoreland had lately brought him. Very unlovely he looked, dragging
himself along like a wounded beast. The poor wretch struck a
discordant note in the sweet peacefulness of the spring evening; nor
could we say anything to comfort him, we who were not maimed.

Came a high, sweet, shrill call at the gate; a high yelp of delight
from Pitache, hurtling himself forward like a woolly white cannonball;
a sound of light and flying feet; and Mary Virginia ran into the
garden, the little overjoyed dog leaping frantically about her. She
wore a white frock, and over it a light scarlet jacket. Her blue eyes
were dancing, lighting her sweet and fresh face, colored like a rose.
The gay little breeze that came along with her stirred her skirts, and
fluttered her scarlet ribbons, and the curls about her temples. You
might think Spring herself had paused for a lovely moment in the
Parish House garden and stood before you in this gracious and virginal
shape, at once delicate and vital.

Miss Sally Ruth, scattering pigeons right and left, dashed to the
fence to call greetings. My mother, seizing the child by the arms,
held her off a moment, to look her over fondly; then, drawing her
closer, kissed her as a daughter is kissed.

I laid my hand on the child's head, happy with that painful happiness
her presence always occasioned me, when she came back after an
absence--as if the Other Girl flashed into view for a quick moment,
and then was gone. Laurence, who had followed, stood looking down at
her with boyish condescension.

"Huh! I can eat hominy off her head!" said he, aggravatingly.

"Old Mister Biggity!" flashed Mary Virginia. And then she turned and
met, face to face, the fixed stare of John Flint, hanging upon his
crutches as one might upon a cross,--a stare long, still, intent,
curious, speculative, almost incredulous.

"You are the Padre's last guest, aren't you?" her eyes were full of
gravest sympathy. "I'm so sorry you met with such a misfortune--but
I'm gladder you're alive. It's so good just to be alive in the spring,
isn't it?" She smiled at him directly, taking him, as it were, into a
pleasant confidence. She see