isgust, she threw her books aside, declaring that
she would give it up and take to sewing again.

This was her mood on the Saturday afternoon following the game of
bridge, when, dropping her work, she went into the park with Bob
Henderson, her next door neighbor and devoted companion. Bob was the
oldest of four children, though but six himself, and when his mother
could spare him from the home tasks that were already piling upon his
small shoulders, he liked best to go with Hertha among the trees to the
lake where every day there was some new interest. This afternoon it was
a brood of ducks that were taking their first bath. And while Hertha sat
on the grass he wandered along the shore, throwing in bits of bread and
sometimes laughing softly to himself.

The afternoon was full of golden lights, the warm sun bringing a feeling
of happy drowsiness. School was forgotten and the southern girl basked
in the languorous fragrance of spring. Life had begun again for the
world. Across from where she sat on a granite stone a little white
butterfly lighted and slowly folded and unfolded its wings. It quivered
on its resting place as though not yet accustomed to flight. The buds on
the azalea were slowly opening. Everywhere life was close to fulfilment
and yet as though waiting for some final word from sun or earth.

"Please come here, Miss Ogilvie," Bob called, running up to her. "Look
at this bird. I bet it's broken its wing."

A white birch hung over the path by the water's edge and beneath it, on
the smooth asphalt, fluttered a little bird, brilliant with black and
orange markings. It hopped away as they approached, but made no flight,
and as they followed they could mark each splotch of black and white and
orange.

"What is it?" Bob asked eagerly.

"I never saw it before," Hertha said. "I think it belongs up in the
treetops."

Bob eyed the broken wing. "It was some boy," he said admiringly, "that
could hit such a little thing with nothing but a stone."

"Was that how it happened?"

"Sure. I've seen the boys throwing stones up the trees, but it ain't
often they bring down a bird."

Making a tremendous effort, the bird flew on to a low branch of the
birch. Amid the young green leaves its dress of orange and black showed
gayer than ever. It reminded Hertha of one of Ellen's children, a little
girl with shining black face and bright black eyes, who used to wear as
a kerchief her mother's bandana. She was like a bird he