"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.

Clélie, 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.