“I must work
... while it is day.”
Lightly as a flower, a living and glorious flower, she lifted and launched herself into the air, flew straight and sure for the outside light, hung poised one gracious moment, and was gone.
He turned to me the sweetest, clearest eyes I have ever seen in a mortal countenance, the eyes of a little child. His face had caught a sort of secret beauty, that was never to leave it any more.
“Parson!” said the Butterfly Man, in a whisper that shook with the beating of his heart behind it: “Parson! Don’t it beat hell?”
I rocked on my toes. Then I flung my arms around him, with a jubilant shout:
“It does! It does! Oh, Butterfly Man, by the grace and the glory and the wonder of God, it beats hell!”