all these years you’ve been gone!  Now I’m sending one or two of them back to you.  Please play like my tray’s a million times bigger and finer and that it’s all loaded down with good messages and hopes; and believe that still it wouldn’t be half big enough to hold all the good wishes the Parish House folks (you were right:  I belong, and so does Kerry) send you to-day by the hand of your old friend,

THE BUTTERFLY MAN.

Mary Virginia showed me that letter, too, because she was so delighted with it, and so proud of it.  I like its English very well, but I like its Irishness even better.

But, although she had at last finished and done with school, Mary Virginia didn’t come home to us as we had hoped she would.  Her mother had other plans, which failed to include little Appleboro.  Why should a girl with such connections and opportunities be buried in a little town when great cities waited for just such with open and welcoming arms?  The best we got then was a photograph of our girl in her graduation frock—­slim wistful Mary Virginia, with much of her dear angular youthfulness still clinging to her.

It was Mrs. Eustis herself who kept us posted, after awhile, of the girl’s later triumphant progress; the sensation she created, the bored world bowing to her feet because she brought it, along with name and wealth, so fresh a spirit, so pure a beauty.  There was a certain autocratic old Aunt of her mother’s, a sort of awful high priestess in the inmost shrine of the sacred elect; this Begum, delighted with her young kinswoman, ordered the rest of her world to be likewise delighted, and the world agreeing with her verdict, Mary Virginia fared very well.  She was feted, photographed, and paragraphed.  Her portrait, painted by a rather obscure young man, made the painter famous.  In the hands of the Begum the pretty girl blossomed into a great beauty.  The photograph that presently came to us quite took our breath away, she was so regal.

“She will never, never again be at home in little Appleboro,” said my mother, regretfully.  “That dear, simple, passionate, eager child we used to know has gone forever—­life has taken her.  This beautiful creature’s place is not here—­she belongs to a world where the women wear titles and tiaras, and the men wear kings’ orders.  No, we could never hope to hold her any more.”

“But we could love her, could we not?  Perhaps even more than those fine ladies with tiaras and titles and those fine gentlemen with orders, whom your fancy conjures up for her,” said I crisply, for her words stung.  They found an echo in my own heart.

“Love her?  Oh, but of course!  But—­love counts for very, very little in the world which claims Mary Virginia now, Armand.  Ambition stifles him.”  I was silent.  I knew.

As for John Flint, he looked at that photograph and turned red.

“Good Lord!  To think I had nerve to send her a few butterflies last year ... told her to play like they meant more!  I somehow couldn’t get the notion in my head that she’d grown up....  I never could think of her except as a sort of kid-angel, because I couldn’t seem to bear the idea of her ever being anything else but what she was.  Well ... she’s not, any more.  And I’ve had the nerve to give a few insects to the Queen of Sheba!”