Summer stole out a-tiptoe, and October had come among the live-oaks and the pines, and touched the wide marshes and made them brown, and laid her hand upon the barrens and the cypress swamps and set them aflame with scarlet and gold.  October is not sere and sorrowful with us, but a ruddy and deep-bosomed lass, a royal and free-hearted spender and giver of gifts.  Asters of imperial purple, golden rod fit for kings’ scepters, march along with her in ever thinning ranks; the great bindweed covers fences and clambers up dying cornstalks; and in many a covert and beside the open ditches the Gerardia swings her pink and airy bells.  All down the brown roads white lady’s-lace and yarrow and the stiff purple iron-weed have leaped into bloom; under its faded green coat the sugar-cane shows purple; and sumac and sassafras and gums are afire.  The year’s last burgeoning of butterflies riots, a tangle of rainbow coloring, dancing in the mellow sunshine.  And day by day a fine still deepening haze descends veil-like over the landscape and wraps it in a vague melancholy which most sweetly invades the spirit.  It is as if one waits for a poignant thing which must happen.

Upon such a perfect afternoon, I, reading my worn old breviary under our great magnolia, heard of a sudden a voice of pure gold call me, very softly, by my name; and looking up met eyes of almost unbelievable blue, and the smile of a mouth splendidly young and red.

I suppose the tall girl standing before me was fashionably and expensively clad; heaven knows I don’t know what she wore, but I do know that whatever it was it became her wonderfully; and although it seemed to me very simple, and just what such a girl ought to wear, my mother says you could tell half a mile away that those clothes smacked of super-tailoring at its costliest.  Hat and gloves she held in her slim white ringless hand.  One thus saw her waving hair, framing her warm pale face in living ebony.

“Padre!” said she.  “Oh, dear, dear, Padre!” and down she dropped lightly beside me, and cradled her knees in her arms, and looked up, with an arch and tender friendliness.  That childish action, that upward glance, brought back the darling child I had so greatly loved.  This was no Queen-of-Sheba, as John Flint had thought.  This was not the regal young beauty whose photograph graced front pages.  This was my own girl come back.  And I knew I hadn’t lost Mary Virginia.

“I remembered this place, and I knew—­I just knew in my heart—­you’d be sitting here, with your breviary in your hand.  I knew just how you’d be looking up, every now and then, smiling at things because they’re lovely and you love them.  So I stole around by the back gate—­and there you were!” said she, her eyes searching me.  “Padre, Padre, how more than good to see you again!  And I’m sure that’s the same cassock I left you wearing.  You could wear it a couple of lifetimes without getting a single spot on it—­you were always such a delightful old maid, Padre!  Where and how is Madame?  Who’s in the Guest Rooms?  How is John Flint since he’s come to be a Notable?  Has Miss Sally Ruth still got a Figure?  How are the judge’s cats, and the major’s goatee?  How is everything and everybody?”