Now the naturalist who knows anything at all of those deep mysterious well-springs underlying his great profession, understands that he is a ’prentice hand learning his trade in the workshop of the Almighty; wherein “the invisible things of Him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made.”  As Paul on a time reminded the Romans.

Wherefore I who had learned somewhat from the Little Peoples now applied what they had taught me, and when I saw my man grow restless, move about aimlessly, withdraw into himself and become as one blind and dumb and unhearing, I understood he was facing a change, making ready to project himself into some larger phase of existence as yet in the womb of the future.  So I did not question what wind drove him forth before it like a lost leaf.  The loving silent companionship of red Kerry, the friendly faces of young children to whom he was kind, the eyes of poor men and women looking to him for help, these were better for him now than I.

But my mother was not a naturalist, and she was provoked with John Flint.  He ate irregularly, he slept as it pleased God.  He was “running wild” again.  This displeased her, particularly as Appleboro had at her instigation included Mr. John Flint in its most exclusive list, and there were invitations she was determined he should accept.  She had put her hand to the social plow in his behalf, and she had no faintest notion of withdrawing it.  Once fairly aroused, Madame had that able-bodied will heaven seems to have lavished so plenteously upon small women:  In recompense, I dare say, for lack of size.

Therefore Mr. Flint duteously appeared at intervals among the elect, and appeared even to advantage.  And my mother remarked, complacently, that blood will tell:  he had the air!  He was not expected to dance, but he was a superb cardplayer.  He never told jokes, and so avoided deadly repetition.  He had in a large measure that virtue the Chinese extol—­the virtue of allowing others to save their faces in peace.  Was it any wonder Mr. Flint’s social position was soon solidly established?

He played the game as my mother forced it upon him, though at times, I think, it bored and chafed him sorely.  What chafed him even more sorely was the unprecedented interest many young ladies—­and some old enough to know better—­suddenly evinced in entomology.

Mr. Flint almost overnight developed a savage cunning in eluding the seekers of entomological lore.  One might suppose a single man would rejoice to see his drab workroom swarm with these brightly-colored fluttering human butterflies; he bore their visits as visitations, displaying the chastened resignation Job probably showed toward the latest ultra-sized carbuncle.

“Cheer up!” urged Laurence, who was watching this turn of affairs with unfeeling mirth.  “The worst is yet to come.  These are only the chickens:  wait until the hens get on your trail!”