Chrissalyn fell forward in a dead faint. When she returned to consciousness, limp and pale, and Cartice suggested taking her into her apartment, lest the Colonel return, she smiled feebly, saying, “There is no danger. He will not be back in ten or twelve hours. You probably think this scene unusual, but its like has occurred several times before. Once I had to shoot, and the ball went through his hat. The shock of it was almost too much for me, for I thought I had killed him.” “My poor Chriss, you must leave him, and not run such risks any more. One such experience is enough to make you grey-headed.” “I stay on because I can do no other thing, and if I could I should stay to take care of him, poor, helpless, wandering soul that he is. He will come home to-morrow weak as a baby, go to bed and lie there helpless for weeks.” She was a true prophet. At midnight of the next day he crept wearily up the stairs, a feeble, disheveled, miserable figure, with a pale, peaked face, and faded, watery eyes. Taking refuge in bed, he arose no more for over a month. These days of terror and anxiety were telling seriously on the Butterfly, ever a fragile being, who hung to earth seemingly by the most delicate thread. The pity of it was that she loved life so. Even as it had disclosed itself to her, full of disappointment, of tragedy, heartache and humiliation, with want menacing her daily and trouble elbowing her at every step, still she loved it. Her ideal was not particularly exalted. Given pretty clothes and surroundings, a few pleasant friends, a modest retinue of moths to circle round her and a few gold pieces to jingle in her purse, and she could squeeze joy out of life still. But remember she was a butterfly. CHAPTER VII. OPPORTUNITY. “A new friend is a new fortune.” You have sometimes known happiness, eh? Yes, the happiness of others. --_Aresene Houssaye._ One Sunday morning Mrs. Doring sat at a window, making a sketch of a figure she saw on the opposite side of the street, when Chrissalyn, who had entered by the open door, went near and looked over her shoulder with the familiarity of close friendship. “Why, how wonderful!” she exclaimed, the most flattering admiration in her voice and face. “That’s Gabriel Norris, the street preacher, a local celebrity. You’ve done him to perfection--even better than he looks himself--that is, I see something in his expression here that I never saw in him, and yet I believe he has it after all. The picture brings it out strong. I can’t tell just what it is, but it makes me want to cry.”