Those two had drawn back a little into the shadows as if the night had reached out its arms to them.  Such a night belonged to such as these; they invest it, lend it meaning, give it intelligible speech.  As for me, I was an old priest in an old cassock, with all his fond and foolish old heart melting in his breast.  Youth alone is eternal and immortal.  And as for love, it is of God.

“As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen.”  I had finished the decade.  And then as one awakes from a trance I rose softly and as softly crept back to the Parish House, happy and at peace, because I had seen that which makes the morning stars rejoice when they sing together.

“Armand,” said my mother, sleepily, “is that you, dear?  I must have been nodding in my chair.  Mary Virginia’s just walked to the gate with Laurence.”

“My goodness,” said she, half an hour later.  “What on earth can that child mean?  Hadn’t you better call her in, Armand?”

“No,” said I, decidedly.

Laurence brought her back presently.  There must have been something electrical in the atmosphere, for my mother of a sudden sat bolt upright in her chair.  Women are like that.  That is one of the reasons why men are so afraid of them.

“Padre, and p’tite Madame,” began Laurence, “you’ve been like a father and mother to me—­and—­and—­”

“And we thought you ought to know,” said Mary Virginia.

“My children!” cried my mother, ecstatically, “it is the wish of my heart!  Always have I prayed our good God to let this happen—­and you see?”

“But it’s a great secret:  it’s not to be breathed, yet,” said Mary Virginia.

“Except, of course, my father—­” began Laurence.

“And the Butterfly Man,” I added, firmly.  Well knowing none of us could keep such news from him.

“As for me,” said my mother, gloriously reckless, “I shall open one of the two bottles of our great-grandfather’s wine!” The last time that wine had been opened was the day I was ordained.  “Armand, go and bring John Flint.”

When I reached his rooms Kerry was whining over a huddled form on the porch steps.  John Flint lay prone, his arms outstretched, horribly suggestive of one crucified.  At my step he struggled upright.  I had my arms about him in another moment.

“Are you hurt? sick?  John, John, my son, what is it?  What is it?”

“No, no, I’m all right.  I—­was just a little shaky for the minute.  There, there, don’t you be scared, father.”  But his voice shook, and the hand I held was icy cold.

“My son, my dear son, what is wrong with you?”

He controlled himself with a great effort.  “Oh, I’ve been a little off my feed of late, father, that’s all.  See, I’m perfectly all right, now.”  And he squared his shoulders and tried to speak in his natural voice.

“My mother wanted you to come over for a few minutes, there’s something you’re to know.  But if you don’t feel well enough—­”