If Chrissalyn could see into the world to follow this, Cartice wondered why she had had no glimpse of her husband. She had not, she said, and didn’t want to. She hoped she never would see any one who had been near to her--it would be too terrible. She insisted on keeping all knowledge of her queer experiences from Prescott. His sniffs and sneers of ridicule would be too much for her, nor did Cartice feel equal to them either. According to Phillips Brooks there are two kinds of cowardice, that of the conservative, and that of the radical, both of them fatal to freedom of thought. The former is afraid of being called an innovator, the latter fears to be thought conservative. One pliantly conforms to established methods; the other strikes defiance of them. Neither of them are free. Perhaps Prescott was of the second. Perhaps he fought what he called superstition lest he be forced to believe in spite of himself. At any rate his two friends, perhaps the loyalest he had, were not bold enough to take him into their confidence. The intolerant always pay this penalty. They shut out confidence; they make people afraid of them; they keep light and good away from them, and drive angels themselves from their gates. Cartice had a notion that the Butterfly and Prescott loved each other. Being something of which the gods themselves must approve, she could not understand the Butterfly’s reticence on the subject, for the winged creature said not a word in regard to it. In spite of his aggressive character and some other deplorable defects, Prescott was a man to be proud of. The three were much together. Prescott was the Butterfly’s tireless escort everywhere, and they were usually anxious to have Cartice with them, and often they came together to pass a few hours with her in the evening, as she was invariably alone, Doring finding places more to his taste than the one he called home. Some of Prescott’s friends said more than once that he was growing gentler and kinder, both on paper and off. One evening the three friends were together in Cartice’s apartment. Prescott’s face was radiant, with a light never seen there before. It refined and softened his rugged features, making his countenance sweet and sunny. “He has spoken,” thought Cartice, “and this is the light of love that has naught to fear.” “Children,” he said, after a time, with an unusual sweetness and confidence that became him well, “dear children, I am going to have happiness.” Both looked at him in affectionate inquiry. “What kind of happiness?” asked the Butterfly, in a low voice, for there was that in his face which made them feel they were upon holy ground.