med perfectly unconscious of the evil
unloveliness of him; Mary Virginia always seemed to miss the evil,
passing it over as if it didn't exist. Instead, diving into the depths
of other personalities, always she brought to the surface whatever
pearl of good might lie concealed at the bottom. To her this sinister
cripple was simply another human being, with whose misfortune one must
sympathize humanly.

Clelie, in a speckless white apron and a brand-new red-and-white
bandanna to do greater honor to the little girl whom she adored, set a
table under the trees and spread it with the thin dainty sandwiches,
the delectable little cakes, and the fine bonbons she and my mother
had made to celebrate the child's return. And we had tea, making very
merry, for she had a thousand amusing things to tell us, every airy
trifle informed with something of her own brave bright mirthful
spirit. John Flint sat nearby in the wheel chair, his crutches lying
beside it, and looked on silently and ate his cake and drank his tea
stolidly, as if it were no unusual thing for him to break bread in
such company.

"Padre," said Mary Virginia with deep gravity. "My aunt Jenny says I'm
growing up. She says I'll have to put up my hair and let down my
frocks pretty soon, and that I'll probably be thinking of beaux in
another year, though she hopes to goodness I won't, until I've got
through with school at least."

The almost unconscious imitation of Miss Jenny's pecking, birdlike
voice made me smile.

"Beaux! Long skirts! Put up hair! Great Scott, will you listen to the
kid!" scoffed Laurence. "You everlasting little silly, you! P'tite
Madame, these cakes are certainly all to the good. May I have another
two or three, please!"

"I'm 'most thirteen years old, Laurence Mayne," said Mary Virginia,
with dignity. "You're only seventeen, so you don't need to give
yourself such hateful airs. You're not too old to be greedy, anyhow.
Padre, _am_ I growing up?"

"I fear so, my child," said I, gloomily.

"You're not glad, either, are you, Padre?"

"But you were such a delightful child," I temporized.

"Oh, lovely!" said Laurence, eying her with unflattering
brotherliness. "And she had so much feeling, too, Mary Virginia! Why,
when I was sick once, she wanted me to die, so she could ride to my
funeral in the front carriage; she doted on funerals, the little
ghoul! She was horribly disappointed when I got better--she thought it
disobliging of me, and that