“Parson, think of me representing the Brigade down here on the Carolina coast, keeping up the work, fighting things that hurt and finding out things that help Lord, what a chance!  A hundred millions to work for, a hundred millions of one’s own people—­and a trail to blaze for the unborn millions to come!” His glance kindled, his face was like a lighted lamp.  The vision was upon him, standing there in the April sunlight, staring wide-eyed into the future.

Its reflected light illumined me, too—­a little.  And I saw that in a very large and splendid sense, this was the true American.  He stood almost symbolically for that for which America stands—­the fighting chance to overcome and to grow, the square deal, the spirit that looks eagle-eyed and unafraid into the sunrise.  And above all for unselfish service and unshakable faith, and a love larger than personal love, prouder than personal pride, higher than personal ambition.  They do not know America who do not know and will not see this spirit in her, going its noble and noiseless way apart.

“The whole world to work for, and a whole lifetime to do it in!” said the voice of America, exultant.  “Lord God, that’s a man-sized job, but You just give me hands and eyes and time, and I’ll do the best I can.  You’ve done Your part by me—­stand by, and I’ll do mine by You!”

Are those curious coincidences, those circumstances which occur at such opportune moments that they leave one with a sense of a guiding finger behind the affairs of men—­are they, after all, only fortuitous accidents, or have they a deeper and a diviner significance?

There stood the long worktable, with orderly piles of work on it; the microscope in its place; the books he had opened and pushed aside last night; and some half-dozen small card-board boxes in a row, containing the chrysalids he had been experimenting with, trying the effect of cold upon color.  The cover of one box had been partially pushed off, possibly when he had moved the books.  And while we had been paying attention to other things, one of these chrysalids had been paying strict attention to its own business, the beautiful and important business of becoming a butterfly.  Flint discovered it first, and gave a pleased exclamation.

“Look!  Look!  A Turnus, father!  The first Turnus of the year!”

The insect had been out for an hour or two, but was not yet quite ready to fly.  It had crawled out of the half-opened box, dragged its wormy length across the table, over intervening obstacles, seeking some place to climb up and cling to.

Now the Butterfly Man had left the Bible open, merely shoving it aside without shutting it, when he had found no comfort for himself last night in what John had to say.  Protected by piled-up books and propped almost upright by the large inkstand, it gave the holding-place the insect desired.  The butterfly had walked up the page and now clung to the top.