turned
toward a certain rustic seat hard by, uttering a melodious note or two,
every now and then, from pure impatience.

And presently, sure enough, he spied her for whom he waited,--the tall,
long limbed, supple-waisted creature--whose skin was pink and gold like
the peaches and apricots in the garden, and with soft, little rings of
hair that would have made such an excellent lining to a nest. From this
strictly utilitarian point of view he had often admired her hair, (had
this Black-bird fellow), as she passed to and fro among her flowers, or
paused to look up at him and listen to his song, or even sometimes to
speak to him in her sweet, low voice.

But to-day she seemed to have forgotten him altogether, she did not even
glance his way, indeed she walked with bent head, and seemed to keep her
eyes always upon the ground.

Therefore the black-bird hopped a little further along the branch, and
peered over to look down at her with first one round eye, and then the
other, as she sank upon the seat, near by, and leaned her head wearily
against the great tree, behind. And thus he saw, upon the pint and gold
of her cheek, something that shone, and twinkled like a drop of dew.

If the Black-bird wondered at this, and was inclined to be curious, he
sturdily repressed the weakness,--for here was the audience--seated,
and waiting--all expectation for him to begin.

So, without more ado, he settled himself upon the bough, lifted his
head, stretched his throat, and, from his yellow bill, poured forth a
flood of golden melody as he burst forth into his "Song of Memory."

And what a song it was!--so full of passionate entreaty, of tender
pleading, of haunting sweetness, that, as she listened, the bright drop
quivering upon her lashes, fell and was succeeded by another, and
another. Nor did she attempt to check them, or wipe them away, only she
sat and listened with her heavy head pillowed against the great tree,
while the Blackbird, glancing down at her every now and then with
critical eye to mark the effect of some particularly difficult passage,
piped surely as he had never done before, until the listener's proud
face sank lower and lower, and was, at last, hidden in her hands. Seeing
which, the Black-bird, like the true artist he was, fearing an
anti-climax, very presently ended his song with a long-drawn,
plaintive note.

But Anthea sat there with her proud head bowed low, long after he had
retired for the night. And th