"I hope I didn't startle you? It's my butterfly's fault. You
see, I never know where I've got to follow him, or what I'm going
to find when I get there."
"Your butterfly? You mean that Red Admiral that just whizzed by? He
skimmed over my easel," said the young lady.
"Is that his real name?" Peter was enchanted. "A black fellow with
red on his coat-tails, and a sash like a general's? Then that's my
butterfly!" said Peter, happily. He smiled at the girl again, and
finished, naively: "I owe that butterfly a whole heap of good luck!"
She told him she was spending some time with the Northern people who
had lately bought Lynwood Plantation, a few miles down the river.
She liked to prowl around and paint things.
"And now," she asked, "would you mind telling me something more
about that butterfly of yours? And where some more of the good luck
comes in?" She was growing more and more interested in Peter.
Peter dropped down beside the easel, his hands clasped loosely
between his knobby knees. It seemed the most natural thing in the
world that he should find himself talking freely to this Yankee
girl; it was the most natural thing in the world that she should
understand.
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