ed
long.

We paused in the ghostly half-light of the tall bamboo where the
moonlight trickled through, to listen to the song of the Mysterious Bird
of the Spirit Land. The bird is seldom seen alive, but if separated from
its mate, at once it begins the search by a soft appealing call. If
absence is prolonged the call increases to heart-breaking moaning, till
from exhaustion the bird droops head downward and dies from grief.

That night the mate was surely lost. The lonely feathered thing made us
shiver with the weirdness of its sad notes.

Suddenly we remembered the lateness of the hour and our guest. We took a
short cut across the soft grass toward the house.

We turned sharply around a clump of bamboo and halted. A few steps
before us was Page Hanaford. Seated on the edge of an old stone lantern,
head in hands, out of the bitterness of some agony we heard him cry,
"God in Heaven! _How_ can I tell her!"

Zura and I clutched hands and crept away to the house. Even then we did
not dare to look each other in the face.

Soon after Page came in. He gave no sign of his recent storm, but said
good-night to me and, looking down at Zura, he held out his hand without
speaking.

Now that I could see the girl's face I could hardly believe she was the
same being. With flushed cheeks and downcast eyes she stood in wondering
silence, as if in stumbling upon a secret place in a man's soul, she had
fallen upon undiscovered regions in her own.

When I returned from locking the door after Page, Zura had gone to her
room.

In the night I remembered that not once had Page referred to his absence
from the city.

Zura, Jane and I had not often discussed young Hanaford. When we did, it
was how we could give him pleasure rather than the probable cause of his
spells of dejection. But when I found Jane alone the next day and told
her what we had seen in the gardens, omitting what we'd heard, she had
an explanation for the whole affair.

[Illustration: "God in Heaven. How can I tell her!"]

"It is perfectly plain, Miss Jenkins. Page has been disappointed in
love. I know the signs," Jane said with a little sigh, brightening as
she went on, "but that doesn't kill, just hurts, and makes people moody.
I am going to tell Page I know his secret. I know, too, a recipe that
will soon heal wounds like his. We have it right here in the house."

"Oh! Jane Gray," I said, exasperated, "do cultivate a little common
sense. Now you run along and