was known to be his firm friend; nobody could forget the incident of those butterflies in the doctor’s hat!  Major Cartwright liked him so much that he even bore with the dogs, though Pitache in particular must have sorely strained his patience.  Pitache cherished the notion that it was his duty to pass upon all visitors to the Butterfly Man’s rooms.  For some reason, known only to himself, the little dog also cherished a deep-seated grudge against the major, the very sound of whose voice outside the door was enough to send him howling under the table, where he lay with his head on his paws, a wary eye cocked balefully, and his snarls punctuating the Major’s remarks.

“He smells my Unitarian soul, confound him!” said the major.  “An’ he’s so orthodox he thinks he’ll get chucked out of dog-heaven, if he doesn’t show his disapproval.”

The little dog did finally learn to accept the major’s presence without outward protest; though the major declared that Pitache always hung down his tail when he came and hung it up when he left!

The Butterfly Man accepted whatever friendliness was proffered without diffidence, but with no change in his natural reserve.  You could tell him anything:  he listened, made few comments and gave no advice, was absolutely non-shockable, and never repeated what he heard.  The unaffected simplicity of his manner delighted my mother.  She said you couldn’t tell her—­there was good blood in that man, and he had been more than any mere tramp before he fell into our hands!  Why, just observe his manner, if you please!  It was the same to everybody; he had, one might think, no sense whatever of caste, creed, age, sex, or color; and yet he neither gave offense nor received it.

Those outbursts which had so terrified me at first came at rare and rarer intervals.  If I were to live for a thousands years I should never be able to forget the last and worst; which fell upon him suddenly and without warning, on a fine morning while he sat on the steps of his verandah, and I beside him with my Book of Hours in my hand.  In between the Latin prayers I sensed pleasantly the light wind that rustled the vines, and how the Mayne bees went grumbling from flower to flower, and how one single bird was singing to himself over and over the self-same song, as if he loved it; and how the sunlight fell in a great square, like a golden carpet, in front of the steps.  It was all very still and peaceful.  I was just turning a page, when John Flint jerked his pipe out of his mouth, swung his arm back, and hurled the pipe as far as he could.  I watched it, involuntarily, and saw where it fell among our blue hydrangeas; from which a thin spiral of smoke arose lazily in the calm air.  But Flint shoved his hat back on his head, sat up stiffly, and swore.