He was delighted with our collection.  He could appreciate its scope and value, something to which all Appleboro else paid but passing heed.  John Flint declared that most folks came to see our butterflies just as they would have run to see the dog-faced boy or the bearded lady—­merely for something to see.  But this man’s appreciation and praise were both sincere and encouraging.  And as he never allowed anything or anybody unusual or interesting to pass him by without at least sampling its savor, he formed the habit of strolling over to the Parish House to talk with the limping man who had come there a dying tramp, was now a scientist, with the manner and appearance of a gentleman, and who spoke at will the language of two worlds.  That this once black sheep had strayed of his own will and pleasure from some notable fold Hunter didn’t for a moment doubt.  Like all Appleboro, he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see this prodigal son welcomed into the bosom of some Fifth Avenue father, and have the fatted calf dressed for him by a chef whose salary might have hired three college professors.  Hunter had known one or two such black sheep in his time; he fancied himself none too shrewd in thus penetrating Flint’s rather obvious secret.

My mother watched the secretary’s comings and goings at the Parish House speculatively.  Not even the fact that he quoted her adored La Rochefoucauld, in flawless French, softened her estimate.

“If he even had the semblance of a heart!” said she, regretfully.  “But he is all head, that one.”

Now, I am a simple man, and this cultivated and handsome man of the world delighted me.  To me immured in a mill town he brought the modern world’s best.  He was a window, for me, which let in light.

“That great blonde!” said Madame, wonderingly.  “He is so designedly fascinating I wonder you fail to see the wheels go ’round.  However, let me admit that I thank God devoutly I am no longer young and susceptible.  Consider the terrible power such a man might exert over an ardent and unsophisticated heart!”

It was Hunter who had brought me a slim book, making known to me a poet I had otherwise missed.

“You are sure to like Bridges,” he told me, “for the sake of one verse.  Have you ever thought why I like you, Father De Rance?  Because you amuse me.  I see in you one of life’s subtlest ironies:  A Greek beauty-worshiper posing as a Catholic priest—­in Appleboro!” He laughed.  And then, with real feeling, he read in his resonant voice: 

    “I love all beautiful things: 
    I seek and adore them. 
    God has no better praise,
    And man in his hasty days,
    Is honored for them.”