“I get it,” said I, annoyed.  “Your attitude, John Flint, is a vulgar platitude.  And permit me to—­”

“I’ll permit you to do anything except get cross,” said he, quickly.  The ghost of a smile touched his face.  “Being bad-tempered, parson, suits you just about as well as plaid pants and a Hello Bill button.”

“I am a human being,” I began, frigidly.

“And I’m another.  And so is Mary Virginia.  And there we are, parson.  I’m troubled.  I don’t like the looks of things.  It’s no use telling myself this is none of my business; it is very much my business.  You remember ... when I came here ...” he hesitated, for this is a subject we do not like to discuss, “what you were up against ... parson, I’ve thought you must have been caught and crucified yourself, and learned things on the cross, and that’s why you held on to me.  But with the kids, it was different—­particularly the little girl.  The first thing I ever got from her was a lovely look, the first time ever I set eyes on her she came with an underwing moth.  I’d be a poor sort that wouldn’t be willing to be spilt like water and scattered like dust, if she needed me now, wouldn’t I?”

“But,” said I, perplexed, “what can you do?  A young lady has seen fit to break her engagement; young ladies often see fit to do that, my dear fellow.  This isn’t an uncommon case.  Also, one doesn’t interfere in a lady’s private affairs, not even when one is an old priest who has loved her since her childhood, nor yet a Butterfly Man who is her devoted friend.  Don’t you see?”

“I see there’s something wrong,” said he, doggedly.

“Perhaps.  But that doesn’t give one the right to pry into something she evidently doesn’t wish to reveal,” I told him.

“I suppose,” said he, heavily, “you are right.  But if you hear anything, let me know, won’t you?”

I promised; but I found out nothing, save that it had not been Mrs. Eustis who influenced her daughter’s action.  This came out in a call Mrs. Eustis made at the Parish House.

“My dear,” she told my mother, “when she told me she had broken that engagement, I was astounded!  But I can’t say I wasn’t pleased.  Laurence is a dear boy; and his family’s as good as ours—­no one can take that away from the Maynes.  But Mary Virginia should have done better.

“I quarreled with her, argued with her, pleaded with her.  I cried and cried.  But she’s James Eustis to the life—­you might as well try to move the Rock of Gibraltar.  Then one morning she came to my room and told me she found she couldn’t marry Laurence!  And she had already told him so, and broken her engagement, and I wasn’t to ask her any questions.  I didn’t.  I was too glad.”

“And—­Laurence—?” asked my mother, ironically.

“Laurence?  Laurence is a man.  Men get over that sort of thing.  I’ve known a man to be perfectly mad over his wife—­and marry, six months after her death.  They’re like that.  They always get over it.  It’s their nature.”