Summer stole out a-tiptoe, and October had come among the live-oaks and the pines, and touched the wide marshes and made them brown, and laid her hand upon the barrens and the cypress swamps and set them aflame with scarlet and gold. October is not sere and sorrowful with us, but a ruddy and deep-bosomed lass, a royal and free-hearted spender and giver of gifts. Asters of imperial purple, golden rod fit for kings’ scepters, march along with her in ever thinning ranks; the great bindweed covers fences and clambers up dying cornstalks; and in many a covert and beside the open ditches the Gerardia swings her pink and airy bells. All down the brown roads white lady’s-lace and yarrow and the stiff purple iron-weed have leaped into bloom; under its faded green coat the sugar-cane shows purple; and sumac and sassafras and gums are afire. The year’s last burgeoning of butterflies riots, a tangle of rainbow coloring, dancing in the mellow sunshine. And day by day a fine still deepening haze descends veil-like over the landscape and wraps it in a vague melancholy which most sweetly invades the spirit. It is as if one waits for a poignant thing which must happen.

Upon such a perfect afternoon, I, reading my worn old breviary under our great magnolia, heard of a sudden a voice of pure gold call me, very softly, by my name; and looking up met eyes of almost unbelievable blue, and the smile of a mouth splendidly young and red.

I suppose the tall girl standing before me was fashionably and expensively clad; heaven knows I don’t know what she wore, but I do know that whatever it was it became her wonderfully; and although it seemed to me very simple, and just what such a girl ought to wear, my mother says you could tell half a mile away that those clothes smacked of super-tailoring at its costliest. Hat and gloves she held in her slim white ringless hand. One thus saw her waving hair, framing her warm pale face in living ebony.

“Padre!” said she. “Oh, dear, dear, Padre!” and down she dropped lightly beside me, and cradled her knees in her arms, and looked up, with an arch and tender friendliness. That childish action, that upward glance, brought back the darling child I had so greatly loved. This was no Queen-of-Sheba, as John Flint had thought. This was not the regal young beauty whose photograph graced front pages. This was my own girl come back. And I knew I hadn’t lost Mary Virginia.

“I remembered this place, and I knew I just knew in my heart you’d be sitting here, with your breviary in your hand. I knew just how you’d be looking up, every now and then, smiling at things because they’re lovely and you love them. So I stole around by the back gate and there you were!” said she, her eyes searching me. “Padre, Padre, how more than good to see you again! And I’m sure that’s the same cassock I left you wearing. You could wear it a couple of lifetimes without getting a single spot on it you were always such a delightful old maid, Padre! Where and how is Madame? Who’s in the Guest Rooms? How is John Flint since he’s come to be a Notable? Has Miss Sally Ruth still got a Figure? How are the judge’s cats, and the major’s goatee? How is everything and everybody?”

“Did you know you’d have to make room for me, Padre? Well, you will. I picked up and fairly ran away from everything and everybody, because the longing for home grew upon me intolerably. When I was in Europe, and I used to think that three thousand miles of water lay between me and Appleboro, I used to cry at nights. I hope John Flint’s butterflies told him what I told them to tell him for me, when they came by! How beautiful the old place looks! Padre, you’re thin. Why will you work so hard? Why doesn’t somebody stop you? And you’re gray, but how perfectly beautiful gray hair is, and how thick and wavy yours is, too! Gray hair was invented and intended for folks with French blood and names. Nobody else can wear it half so gracefully. Now tell me first of all you’re glad as glad can be to see me, Padre. Say you haven’t forgotten me and then you can tell me everything else!”

She paused, fanned herself with her hat, and laughed, looking up at me with her blue, blue eyes that were so heavily fringed with black.

I was so startled by her sudden appearance as if she had walked out of my prayers, like an angel; and, above all, by that resemblance to the one long since dust and unremembered of all men’s hearts save mine, that I could hardly bear to look upon her. That other one seemed to have stepped delicately out of her untimely grave; to sit once more beside me, and thus to look at me once more with unforgotten eyes. Thou knowest, my God, before whom all hearts are bare, that I could not have loved thee so singly nor served thee without fainting, all these years, if for one faithless moment I could have forgotten her!

My mother came out of the house with a garden hat tied over her white hair, and big garden gloves on her hands. At sight of the girl she uttered a joyful shriek, flung scissors and trowel and basket aside, and rushed forward. With catlike quickness the girl leaped to her feet and the two met and fell into each other’s arms. I wished when I saw the little woman’s arms close so about the girl, and the look that flashed into her face, that heaven had granted her a daughter.

“Mother complained that I should at least have the decency to wire you I was coming she said I was behaving like a child. But I wanted to walk in unannounced. I was so sure, you see, that there’d be welcome and room for me at the Parish House.”

“The little room you used to like so much is waiting for you,” said my mother, happily.

“Next to yours, all in blue and white, with the Madonna of the Chair over the mantelpiece and the two china shepherdesses under her?”

“Then you shall see the new baby in the bigger Guest Room, and the crippled Polish child in the small one,” said my mother. “The baby’s name is Smelka Zurawawski, but she’s all the better for it I never saw a nicer baby. And the little boy is so patient and so intelligent, and so pretty! Dr. Westmoreland thinks he can be cured, and we hope to be able to send him on to Johns Hopkins, after we’ve got him in good shape. Where is your luggage? How long may we keep you? But first of all you shall have tea and some of Clelie’s cakes. Clelie has grown horribly vain of her cakes. She expects to make them in heaven some of these days, for the most exclusive of the cherubim and seraphim, and the lordliest of the principalities and powers.”

Mary Virginia smiled at the pleased old servant. “I’ve half a dozen gorgeous Madras head-handkerchiefs for you, Clelie, and a perfect duck of a black frock which you are positively to make up and wear now you are not to save it up to be buried in!”

“No’m, Miss Mary Virginia. I won’t get buried in it. I’ll maybe get married in it,” said Clelie calmly.

“Married! Clelie!” said my mother, in consternation. “Do you mean to tell me you’re planning to leave me, at this time of our lives?”

Clelie was indignant. “You think I have no mo’sense than to leave you and M’sieu Armand, for some strange nigger? Not me!”

“Who are you going to marry, Clelie?” Mary Virginia was delighted. “And hadn’t you better let me give you another frock? Black is hardly appropriate for a bride.”

“I’m not exactly set in my mind who he’s going to be yet, Miss Mary Virginia, but he’s got to be somebody or other. There’s been lots after me, since it got out I’m such a grand cook and save my wages. But I’ve got a sort of taste for Daddy January. He’s old, but he’s lively. He’s a real ambitious old man like that. Besides, I’m sure of his family, I always did like Judge Mayne and Mister Laurence, and I do like ’ristocratic connections, Miss Mary Virginia. That big nigger that drives one of the mill trucks had the impudence to tell me he’d give me a church wedding and pay for it himself, but I told him I was raised a Catholic; and what you think he said? He said, ’Oh, well, you’ve been christened in the face already. We can dip the rest of you easy enough, and then you’ll be a real Christian, like me!’ I’d just scalded my chickens and was picking them, and I was that mad I upped and let him have that dish pan full of hot water and wet feathers in his face. ‘There,’ says I, ’you’re christened in the face now yourself,’ I says. ‘You can go and dip the rest of yourself,’ says I, ‘but see you do it somewhere else besides my kitchen,’ I says. I don’t think he’s crazy to marry me any more, and Daddy January’s sort of soothing to my feelings, besides being close to hand. Yes’m, I guess you’d better give me the black dress, Miss Mary Virginia, if you don’t mind: it’d come in awful handy if I had to go in mourning.”

“The black dress it shall be,” said Mary Virginia, gaily. She turned to my mother. “And what do you think, p’tite Madame? I’ve a rare butterfly for John Flint, that an English duke gave me for him! The duke is a collector, too, and he’d gotten some specimens from John Flint. The minute he learned I was from Appleboro he asked me all about him. He said nobody else under the sky can ‘do’ insects so perfectly, and that nobody except the Lord and old Henri Fabre knew as much about certain of them as John Flint does. Folks thought the duke was taken up with me, of course, and I was no end conceited! I hadn’t the ghost of an idea you and John Flint were such astonishingly learned folks, Padre! But of course if a duke thought so, I knew I’d better think so, too and so I did and do! Think of a duke knowing about folks in little Appleboro! And he was such a nice old man, too. Not a bit dukey, after you knew him!”

“We come in touch with collectors everywhere,” I explained.

“And so John Flint has written some sort of a book, describing the whole life history of something or other, and you’ve done all the drawings! Isn’t it lovely? Why, it sounds like something out of a pleasant book. Mayn’t I see collector and collection in the morning? And oh, where’s Kerry?”

“Kerry,” said my mother gravely, “is a most important personage. He’s John Flint’s bodyguard. He doesn’t actually sleep in his master’s bed, because he has one of his own right next it. Clelie was horrified at first. She said they’d be eating together next, but the Butterfly Man reminded her that Kerry likes dog-biscuit and he doesn’t. I figure that in the order of his affections the Butterfly Man ranks Kerry first, Armand and myself next, and Laurence a close third.”

“Oh, Laurence,” said Mary Virginia. “I’ll be so glad to see Laurence again, if only to quarrel with him. Is he just as logical as ever? Has he given the sun a black eye with his sling-shot? My father’s always praising Laurence in his letters.”

Now my mother adores Laurence. She patterns upon this model every young man she meets, and if they are not Laurence-sized she does not include them in her good graces. But she seldom lifts her voice in praise of her favorite. She is far, far too wise.

“Laurence generally looks in upon us during the evening, if he is not too busy,” she said, non-committally. “You see, people are beginning to find out what a really fine lawyer Laurence is, so cases are coming to him steadily.”

The trunks had arrived, and Mary Virginia changed into white, in which she glowed and sparkled like a fire opal. We three dined together, and as she became more and more animated, a pink flush stole into her rather pale cheeks and her eyes deepened and darkened. She was vividly alive. One could see why Mary Virginia was classed as a great beauty, although, strictly speaking, she was no such thing. But she had that compelling charm which one simply cannot express in words. It was there, and you felt it. She did not take your heart by storm, willynilly. You watched her, and presently you gave her your heart willingly, delighted that a creature so lovely and so unaffected and worth loving had crossed your path.

She chatted with my mother about that world which the older woman had once graced, and my mother listened without a shade to darken her smooth forehead. But I do not think I ever so keenly appreciated the many sacrifices she had made for me, until that night.

The autumn evening had grown chilly, and we had a fire in the clean-swept fireplace. The old brass dogs sparkled in the blaze, and the shadows flickered and danced on the walls, and across the faces of De Rance portraits; the pleasant room was full of a ruddy, friendly glow. My mother sat in her low rocker, making something or other out of pink and white wools for the baby upstairs. Mary Virginia, at the old square piano, sang for us. She had a charming voice, carefully cultivated and sweet, and she played with great feeling.

Kerry barked at the gate, as he always does when home is reached. My mother, dropping her work, ran to the window which gives upon the garden, and called. A moment later the Butterfly Man, with Laurence just back of him, and Kerry squeezing in between them, stood in the door. Mary Virginia, lips parted, eyes alight, hands outstretched, arose. The light of the whole room seemed not so much to gather upon her, as to radiate from her.

The dog reached her first. Outdoor exercise, careful diet, perfect grooming, had kept Kerry in fine shape. His age told only in an added dignity, a slower movement.

The girl went down on her knees, and hugged him. Pitache, aroused by Kerry’s unwonted demonstrations, circled about them, rushing in every now and then to bestow an indiscriminate lick.

“Why, it’s Mary Virginia!” exclaimed Laurence, and helped her to her feet. The two regarded each other, mutually appraising. He towered above her, head and shoulders, and I thought with great satisfaction that, go where she would, she could nowhere find a likelier man than this same Laurence of ours. Like David in his youth, he was ruddy and of a beautiful countenance.

“Why, Laurence! What a Jack-the-Giant-killer! Mercy, how big the boy’s grown!”

“Why, Mary Virginia! What a heart-smasher! Mercy, how pretty the girl’s grown!” he came back, holding her hand and looking down at her with equally frank delight. “When I remember the pigtailed, leggy, tonguey minx that used to fetch me clumps over the head and then regard this beatific vision I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone!”

“If you’ll kindly give me back my hand, I might be induced to fetch you another clump or two, just to prove my reality,” she suggested, with a delightful hint of the old truculence.

“’T is she! This is indeed none other than our long-lost child!” burbled Laurence. “Lordy, I wish I could tell her how more than good it is to see her again and to see her as she is!”

Now all this time John Flint had stood in the doorway; and when my mother beckoned him forward, he came, I fancied, a bit unwillingly. His limp was for once painfully apparent, and whether from the day-long tramp, or from some slight indisposition, he was very pale; it showed under his deep tan.

But I was proud of him. His manner had a pleasant shyness, which was a tribute to the young girl’s beauty. It had as well a simple dignity. And one was impressed by the fine and powerful physique of him, so lean and springy, so boyishly slim about the hips and waist, so deeply stamped with clean living of days in the open, of nights under the stars. The features had thinned and sharpened, and his red beard became him; the hair thinning on the temples increased the breadth of the forehead, and behind his glasses the piercing blue eyes something like an eagle’s eyes were clear, direct, and kind. He wore his clothes well, with a sort of careless carefulness, more like an Englishman than an American, who is always welldressed, but rather gives the impression of being conscious of it.

Mary Virginia’s lips parted, her eyes widened, for a fraction of a second. But if, remembering him as she had first seen and known him, she was astonished to find him as he was now, she gave no further outward sign. Instead, she gave him her hand as to an equal, and in a few gracious words let him know that she knew and was proud of what he had done and what he was yet to do. She repeated, too, with a pretty air of personal triumph, the old nobleman’s praise. Indeed, it had been he who had told her of the book, which he had lately purchased and studied, she said. And oh, hadn’t she just swelled with pride! She had been that conceited!

“You don’t know how much obliged to you I should be, for if he hadn’t accidentally learned I was from Appleboro, the town in which dwelt his most greatly prized correspondent that’s what he said, Mr. Flint! why, I’m sure he wouldn’t have noticed me any more than he noticed any other girl which is, not at all; he being a toplofty and serious Personage addicted to people who do things and write things, particularly things about things that crawl and fly. And if he hadn’t noticed me so pointedly he actually came to see us! why, I shouldn’t have had such a perfectly gorgeous time. It was a great feather in my cap,” she crowed. “Everybody envied me desperately!” She managed to make us understand that this was really a compliment to the Butterfly Man, not to herself.

“If the little book served you for one minute it was well worth the four years it took me to gather the materials together and write it,” said he, pleasantly. And even the courtly Hunter couldn’t have said it with a manlier grace.

“Mary Virginia,” said Laurence slyly, “when you’ve had your fill of bugs, make him show you the Book of Obituaries. He thereby stands revealed in his true colors. Why, he made me buy the old Clarion and hire Jim Dabney to run it, so his supply of mortuary gems shouldn’t be cut off untimely. To-day he culled this one:

Phileola dear, we cry because thou hast gone and left us,
But well we know it is a merciful heaven which has bereft us.
We tried five doctors and everything else we knew of you to save,
But alas, nothing did you any good, and to-day you are in your grave!

He’s got it in his pocket now. Dabney calls him Mister Bones,” grinned Laurence.

My mother looked profoundly uncomfortable. The Butterfly Man reddened guiltily under her reproachful glance, but Mary Virginia giggled irrepressibly.

“I choose the Book of Obituaries first!” said she promptly, with dancing eyes. Flint drew a breath of relief.

He sat by silently enough, while Laurence and Madame and Mary Virginia talked of everything under heaven. His whole manner was that of an amused, tolerant, sympathetic listener a manner which spurs conversation to its happiest and best. Not for nothing had Major Cartwright called him the most discriminatin’ listener in Carolina.

“Oh, by the way, Flint! Hunter came by this morning to see Dabney. He is going to give a series of Plain Talks to Workingmen this winter, and of course he wants the Clarion to cover them. What do you think, Padre?”

“I think they will be eminently sensible talks and well worth listening to,” said I promptly.

The Butterfly Man smiled crookedly, and shot me a freighted glance.

“Of course,” said Laurence, easily. “Where’s your father these days, Mary Virginia?”

“He was at the plantation this morning, but he’ll be here to-morrow, because I wired him to come. I’ve just got to have him for awhile, business or no business.”

“You did me a favor, then. I want to see him, too.”

“Anything very particular?”

“Politics.”

“How silly! You know very well he never meddles with politics, thank goodness! He thinks he has something better to do.”

“That’s just what I want to see him about,” said Laurence.

“You mentioned a a Mr. Hunter.” Mary Virginia spoke after a short pause. “This is the first time I’ve heard of any Mr. Hunter in Appleboro. Who is Mr. Hunter?”

“Inglesby’s right-bower, and the king-card of the pack,” said Laurence promptly.

“One of them which set up golden images in high places and make all Israel for to sin,” said my mother. “That’s what Howard Hunter is!”

“Oh, ... Howard Hunter!” said she. “What sort of a person may he be? And what is he doing here in Appleboro?”

We told her according to our lights. Only the Butterfly Man sat silent and imperturbable.

“And you’ll meet him everywhere,” finished my mother. “He’s everything a man should be to the naked eye, and I sincerely hope,” she added piously, “that you won’t like him at all.”

Mary Virginia leaned back in her chair, and glanced thoughtfully down at the slim ringless hands clasped in her white lap.

“No,” said she, as if to herself. “There couldn’t by any chance be two such men in this one world. That is he, himself.” And she lifted her head, and glanced at my mother, with a level and proud look. “I think I have met this Mr. Hunter,” said she, smiling curiously. “And if that is true, your hope is realized, p’tite Madame. I shan’t.”