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.