“Laurence!” The Butterfly Man spoke abruptly.  “Laurence, if a chap was dying of thirst and the water of life was offered him, he’d be considerable of a fool to turn his head aside and refuse to see it, wouldn’t he?”

Laurence paused.  Something in the Butterfly Man’s face, something in mine and Madame’s, but, above all, something in Mary Virginia’s, arrested him.  He stood wavering, and my mother released his arm.

“I take it,” said John Flint, boldly plunging to the very heart of the matter, “I take it, Laurence, that you still care a very great deal for this dear girl of ours?” And now he had taken her hand in his and held it comfortingly.  “More, say, than you could ever care for anybody else, if you lived to rival Methusaleh?  So much, Laurence, that not to be able to believe she cares the same way for you takes the core out of life?” His manner was simple and direct, and so kind that one could only answer him in a like spirit.  Besides, Laurence loved the Butterfly Man even as Jonathan loved David.

“Yes,” said the boy honestly, “I still care for her—­like that.  I always did.  I always will.  She knows.”  But his voice was toneless.

“Of course you do, kid brother,” said Flint affectionately.  “Don’t you suppose I know?  But it’s just as well for you to say it out loud every now and then.  Fresh air is good for everything, particularly feelings.  Keeps ’em fresh and healthy.  Now, Mary Virginia, you feel just the same way about Laurence, don’t you?” And he added:  “Don’t be ashamed to tell the most beautiful truth in the world, my dear.  Well?”

She went red and white.  She looked entreatingly into the Butterfly Man’s face.  She didn’t exactly see why he should drive her thus, but she caught courage from his.  One saw how wise Flint had been to have snared Laurence here just now.  One moment she hesitated.  Then: 

“Yes!” said she, and her head went up proudly.  “Yes, oh, yes, I care—­like that.  Only much, much more!  I shall always care like that, although he probably won’t believe me now when I say so.  And I can’t blame him for doubting me.”

“But it just happens that I have never been able to make myself doubt you,” said Laurence gravely.  “Why, Mary Virginia, you are you.”

“Then, Laurence,” said the Butterfly Man, quickly, “will you take your old friends’ word for it—­mine, Madame’s, the Padre’s—­that you were most divinely right to go on believing in her and loving her, because she never for one moment ceased to be worthy of faith and affection?  No, not for one moment!  She couldn’t, you know.  She’s Mary Virginia!  And will you promise to listen with all your patience to what she may think best to tell you presently—­and then forget it?  You’re big enough to do that!  She’s been in sore straits, and she needs all the love you have, to help make up to her.  Can she be sure of it, Laurence?”

Laurence flushed.  He looked at his old friend with reproach in his fine brown eyes.  “You have known me all my life, all of you,” said he, stiffly.  “Have I ever given any of you any reason to doubt me!”