For a moment my mother looked profoundly disappointed.

“Are you sure,” she asked, “that this doesn’t mean a loss to him, Armand?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

She watched my eyes, and of a sudden she reached out, caught my hand, and squeezed it.  Her face softened with sympathetic and tolerant understanding, but she asked no questions, made no comment.  If Solomon had been lucky enough to marry my mother, I am sure he would never have plagued himself with the nine hundred and ninety-nine.  But then, neither would he have written Proverbs.

Neither the Butterfly Man nor I have ever referred to that morning’s incident; the witness of it we cherish; otherwise it pleases us to ignore it as if it had never happened.  It had, of course, its results, for with a desperate intensity of purpose he plunged back into study and research; and as the work was broadening, and called for all his skill and patience, the pendulum swung him far forward again.

I had been so fascinated, watching that transformation, even mere wonderful than any butterfly’s, going on before my eyes; I was so enmeshed in the web of endless duties spun for me by my big poor parish that I did not have time to miss Mary Virginia as poignantly as I must otherwise have done, although my heart longed for her.

My mother never ceased to mourn her absence; something went away from us with Mary Virginia, which could only come back to us with her.  But it so happened that the ensuing summers failed to bring her back.  The little girl spent her vacations with girl friends of whose standing her mother approved, or with relatives she thought it wise the child should cultivate.  For the time being, Mary Virginia had vanished out of our lives.

Laurence, however, spent all his vacations at home; and of Laurence we were immensely proud.  Most of his holidays were spent, not with younger companions, but oddly enough with John Flint.  That old friendship, renewed after every parting, seemed to have grown stronger with the boy’s growth; the passing years deepened it.

“My boy’s forever boasting of your Butterfly Man,” said the judge, falling into step with me one morning on the street.  “He tells me Flint’s been made a member of several learned societies; and that he’s gotten out a book of sorts, telling all there is to tell about some crawling plague or other.  And it seems this isn’t all the wonderful Mr. Flint is capable of:  Laurence insists that biologists will have to look Flintward pretty soon, on account of observations on what he calls insect allies—­whatever they are.”

“Well, you see, his work on insect allies is really unique and thorough, and it opens a door to even more valuable research,” said I, as modestly as I could.  “Flint is one of its great pioneers, and he’s blazing the way.  Some day when the real naturalist comes into his own, he will rank far, far above tricky senators and mutable governors!”