Came a high, sweet, shrill call at the gate; a high yelp of delight from Pitache, hurtling himself forward like a woolly white cannonball; a sound of light and flying feet; and Mary Virginia ran into the garden, the little overjoyed dog leaping frantically about her.  She wore a white frock, and over it a light scarlet jacket.  Her blue eyes were dancing, lighting her sweet and fresh face, colored like a rose.  The gay little breeze that came along with her stirred her skirts, and fluttered her scarlet ribbons, and the curls about her temples.  You might think Spring herself had paused for a lovely moment in the Parish House garden and stood before you in this gracious and virginal shape, at once delicate and vital.

Miss Sally Ruth, scattering pigeons right and left, dashed to the fence to call greetings.  My mother, seizing the child by the arms, held her off a moment, to look her over fondly; then, drawing her closer, kissed her as a daughter is kissed.

I laid my hand on the child’s head, happy with that painful happiness her presence always occasioned me, when she came back after an absence—­as if the Other Girl flashed into view for a quick moment, and then was gone.  Laurence, who had followed, stood looking down at her with boyish condescension.

“Huh!  I can eat hominy off her head!” said he, aggravatingly.

“Old Mister Biggity!” flashed Mary Virginia.  And then she turned and met, face to face, the fixed stare of John Flint, hanging upon his crutches as one might upon a cross,—­a stare long, still, intent, curious, speculative, almost incredulous.

“You are the Padre’s last guest, aren’t you?” her eyes were full of gravest sympathy.  “I’m so sorry you met with such a misfortune—­but I’m gladder you’re alive.  It’s so good just to be alive in the spring, isn’t it?” She smiled at him directly, taking him, as it were, into a pleasant confidence.  She seemed perfectly unconscious of the evil unloveliness of him; Mary Virginia always seemed to miss the evil, passing it over as if it didn’t exist.  Instead, diving into the depths of other personalities, always she brought to the surface whatever pearl of good might lie concealed at the bottom.  To her this sinister cripple was simply another human being, with whose misfortune one must sympathize humanly.

Clelie, in a speckless white apron and a brand-new red-and-white bandanna to do greater honor to the little girl whom she adored, set a table under the trees and spread it with the thin dainty sandwiches, the delectable little cakes, and the fine bonbons she and my mother had made to celebrate the child’s return.  And we had tea, making very merry, for she had a thousand amusing things to tell us, every airy trifle informed with something of her own brave bright mirthful spirit.  John Flint sat nearby in the wheel chair, his crutches lying beside it, and looked on silently and ate his cake and drank his tea stolidly, as if it were no unusual thing for him to break bread in such company.