of the bird's wings fanning the pallid water. The bird,
did I say? But it seemed to them a spirit in the guise of a bird. It had
gradually forgotten its seclusiveness, and now dropped its long legs at
a point right over the middle of the Perdu, alighted apparently on the
liquid surface, and stood suddenly transformed into a moveless statue of
a bird, gazing upon the playmates with bright, significant eyes. The
look made Celia tremble.

The Perdu, as might have been expected when so many mysteries were
credited to it, was commonly held to be bottomless. It is a very poor
neighborhood indeed, that cannot show a pool with this distinction.
Reuben, of course, knew the interpretation of the myth. He knew the
Perdu was very deep. Except at either end, or close to the banks, no
bottom could be found with such fathom-lines as he could command. To
him, and hence to Celia, this idea of vast depths was thrillingly
suggestive, and yet entirely believable. The palpably impossible had
small appeal for them. But when first they saw the great blue bird
alight where they knew the water was fathoms deep, they came near being
surprised. At least, they felt the pleasurable sensation of wonder. How
was the heron supported on the water? From their green nest the children
gazed and gazed; and the great blue bird held them with the gem-like
radiance of its unwinking eye. At length to Reuben came a vision of the
top of an ancient tree-trunk just beneath the bird's feet, just beneath
the water's surface. Down, slanting far down through the opaline
opaqueness, he saw the huge trunk extend itself, to an immemorial
root-hold in the clayey, perpendicular walls of the Perdu. He unfolded
the vision to Celia, who understood. "And it's just as wonderful," said
the girl, "for how did the trunk get there?"

"That's so," answered Reuben, with his eyes fixed on the bird,--"but
then it's quite possible!"

And at the low sound of their voices the bird winnowed softly away.

At another time, when the children were dreaming by the Perdu, a far-off
dinner-horn sounded, hoarsely but sweetly, its summons to the workers in
the fields. It was the voice of noon. As the children, rising to go,
glanced together across the Perdu, they clasped each other with a start
of mild surprise. "Did you see that?" whispered Celia.

"What did you see?" asked the boy.

"It looked like pale green hand, that waved for a moment over the water,
and then sank," said Celia.

"Yes