were near her; her atmosphere enveloped them. She was not aware of it,
being too indifferent to the world to observe what effect she had
in it, and only realized that she was to herself a self-tormentor.
Whether she attracted or repelled, the power was the same. I make no
attempt to analyze her character. I describe her as she appeared,
and as my memory now holds her. I never understood her, and for that
reason she attracted my attention. I felt puzzled now, she seemed
so different from anybody else. My observation was next drawn to
Veronica, who, entirely at home, walked up and down the room in a
blue cambric dress. She was twisting in her fingers a fine gold
chain, which hung from her neck. I caught her cunning glance as she
flourished some tansy leaves before her face, imitating Mrs. Dexter to
the life. I laughed, and she came to me.

"See," she said softly, "I have something from heaven." She lifted her
white apron, and I saw under it, pinned to her dress, a splendid black
butterfly, spotted with red and gold.

"It is mine," she said, "you shall not touch it. God blew it in
through the window; but it has not breathed yet."

"Pooh; I have three mice in the kitchen."

"Where is the mother?"

"In the hayrick, I suppose, I left it there."

"I hate you," she said, in an enraged voice. "I would strike you, if
it wasn't for this holy butterfly."