thumped with apprehension, my mouth was stretched in a
broad grin. I felt that I should never tire of the spectacle before me. I
realized that I had always hated the stuffed birds.

Coppertoes was busy with the owl, when a piercing scream came from behind
me. I turned and found Mrs. Handsomebody gazing with horrified fascination
at the orgy under glass. She took three steps forward, her eyes starting
with horror.

"Come to life--" she gasped, in a strangled voice--"after all these
years--and gone stark mad."

She fell, at full length, across the green and red medallions of the
carpet.

Then, with a rush, Mary Ellen and the charwoman, Mrs. Coe, were upon us,
and, after them, my brothers.

"Lord preserve us!" cried Mary Ellen, bending above her prostrate mistress,
"what has come over the poor lady to be took like this?"

"Is she dead, do you fink?" asked The Seraph, on a hopeful note.

"Well, if she is, faith! 'tis yersilves has kilt her."

"She's just in a swoond," asserted Mrs. Coe, calmly. "Wot she needs is
brandy. Yus, and terbaccer smoke blowed dahn 'er froat." Mrs. Handsomebody
moaned.

"Better get her out of here," suggested Angel, his eye on Coppertoes who,
sated by bloodshed, lay with wings outstretched, panting on the floor of
the case.

"Thrue," agreed Mary Ellen. "And shut the dure afther ye, and make
yersilves scarce till tea-time, like good childer, do."

Mrs. Handsomebody was borne away by Mary Ellen and Mrs. Coe, the latter
still muttering--"terbaccer smoke dahn 'er froat."

We restored Coppertoes to his wicker cage, and wrapping it in an
antimacassar, hid it beneath the piano.

IV

We three sat, "making ourselves scarce," on the topmost of the steps before
the front door. It was only four by the Cathedral clock, which solemnly
struck the hour, but it was almost dark. It was cold and we pressed closely
together for warmth. The Seraph murmured a little song of which I caught
the words:

"The birds! The birds!
He knocked the stuffing
Out of the stuffed birds!"

We watched the slow progress of the lamplighter along the street. Like a
god, he marched solemnly, leaving new stars in his wake.

As he raised his wand and touched the lamp before our house, a new figure
appeared beneath its rays, hurrying darkly towards us. It entered the gate
and came in a stealthy way to where we sat. We recognized the cobbler.

"Little masters," he whispered. "She's flitted."

"Good widdance,