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our friend Owen has wasted on this butterfly。〃
Here the child clapped his hands and made a great babble of
indistinct utterance； apparently demanding that the butterfly
should be given him for a plaything。
Owen Warland； meanwhile； glanced sidelong at Annie； to discover
whether she sympathized in her husband's estimate of the
comparative value of the beautiful and the practical。 There was；
amid all her kindness towards himself； amid all the wonder and
admiration with which she contemplated the marvellous work of his
hands and incarnation of his idea； a secret scorntoo secret；
perhaps； for her own consciousness； and perceptible only to such
intuitive discernment as that of the artist。 But Owen； in the
latter stages of his pursuit； had risen out of the region in
which such a discovery might have been torture。 He knew that the
world； and Annie as the representative of the world； whatever
praise might be bestowed； could never say the fitting word nor
feel the fitting sentiment which should be the perfect recompense
of an artist who； symbolizing a lofty moral by a material
trifle；converting what was earthly to spiritual gold；had won
the beautiful into his handiwork。 Not at this latest moment was
he to learn that the reward of all high performance must be
sought within itself； or sought in vain。 There was； however； a
view of the matter which Annie and her husband； and even Peter
Hovenden； might fully have understood； and which would have
satisfied them that the toil of years had here been worthily
bestowed。 Owen Warland might have told them that this butterfly；
this plaything； this bridal gift of a poor watchmaker to a
blacksmith's wife； was； in truth； a gem of art that a monarch
would have purchased with honors and abundant wealth； and have
treasured it among the jewels of his kingdom as the most unique
and wondrous of them all。 But the artist smiled and kept the
secret to himself 。
〃Father；〃 said Annie； thinking that a word of praise from the old
watchmaker might gratify his former apprentice； 〃do come and
admire this pretty butterfly。〃
〃Let us see；〃 said Peter Hovenden； rising from his chair； with a
sneer upon his face that always made people doubt； as he himself
did； in everything but a material existence。 〃Here is my finger
for it to alight upon。 I shall understand it better when once I
have touched it。〃
But； to the increased astonishment of Annie； when the tip of her
father's finger was pressed against that of her husband； on which
the butterfly still rested； the insect drooped its wings and
seemed on the point of falling to the floor。 Even the bright
spots of gold upon its wings and body； unless her eyes deceived
her； grew dim； and the glowing purple took a dusky hue； and the
starry lustre that gleamed around the blacksmith's hand became
faint and vanished。
〃It is dying！ it is dying！〃 cried Annie； in alarm。
〃It has been delicately wrought；〃 said the artist； calmly。 〃As I
told you； it has imbibed a spiritual essencecall it magnetism；
or what you will。 In an atmosphere of doubt and mockery its
exquisite susceptibility suffers torture； as does the soul of him
who instilled his own life into it。 It has already lost its
beauty； in a few moments more its mechanism would be irreparably
injured。〃
〃Take away your hand； father！〃 entreated Annie； turning pale。
〃Here is my child； let it rest on his innocent hand。 There；
perhaps； its life will revive and its colors grow brighter than
ever。〃
Her father； with an acrid smile； withdrew his finger。 The
butterfly then appeared to recover the power of voluntary motion；
while its hues assumed much of their original lustre； and the
gleam of starlight； which was its most ethereal attribute； again
formed a halo round about it。 At first； when transferred from
Robert Danforth's hand to the small finger of the child； this
radiance grew so powerful that it positively threw the little
fellow's shadow back against the wall。 He； meanwhile； extended
his plump hand as he had seen his father and mother do； and
watched the waving of the insect's wings with infantine delight。
Nevertheless； there was a certain odd expression of sagacity that
made Owen Warland feel as if here were old Pete Hovenden；
partially； and but partially； redeemed from his hard scepticism
into childish faith。
〃How wise the little monkey looks！〃 whispered Robert Danforth to
his wife。
〃I never saw such a look on a child's face；〃 answered Annie；
admiring her own infant； and with good reason； far more than the
artistic butterfly。 〃The darling knows more of the mystery than
we do。〃
As if the butterfly； like the artist； were conscious of something
not entirely congenial in the child's nature； it alternately
sparkled and grew dim。 At length it arose from the small hand of
the infant with an airy motion that seemed to bear it upward
without an effort； as if the ethereal instincts with which its
master's spirit had endowed it impelled this fair vision
involuntarily to a higher sphere。 Had there been no obstruction；
it might have soared into the sky and grown immortal。 But its
lustre gleamed upon the ceiling； the exquisite texture of its
wings brushed against that earthly medium； and a sparkle or two；
as of stardust； floated downward and lay glimmering on the
carpet。 Then the butterfly came fluttering down； and； instead of
returning to the infant； was apparently attracted towards the
artist's hand。
〃Not so！ not so！〃 murmured Owen Warland； as if his handiwork
could have understood him。 〃Thou has gone forth out of thy
master's heart。 There is no return for thee。〃
With a wavering movement； and emitting a tremulous radiance； the
butterfly struggled； as it were； towards the infant； and was
about to alight upon his finger； but while it still hovered in
the air； the little child of strength； with his grandsire's sharp
and shrewd expression in his face； made a snatch at the
marvellous insect and compressed it in his hand。 Annie screamed。
Old Peter Hovenden burst into a cold and scornful laugh。 The
blacksmith； by main force； unclosed the infant's hand； and found
within the palm a small heap of glittering fragments； whence the
mystery of beauty had fled forever。 And as for Owen Warland； he
looked placidly at what seemed the ruin of his life's labor； and
which was yet no ruin。 He had caught a far other butterfly than
this。 When the artist rose high enough to achieve the beautiful；
the symbol by which he made it perceptible to mortal senses
became of little value in his eyes while his spirit possessed
itself in the enjoyment of the reality。
End