however, took no notice of him. "He at all events knows nothing
about what has happened," he thought. At a little distance off was Mrs
Maclean with scissors in hand, trimming; her roses, but she only looked
up for a moment, wondering why Norman should be running about without
his hat.

"It's all right, the bird cannot have been killed after all," he
thought.

He entered the house, and went into the library. There sat Fanny in the
arm-chair, hiding her weeping eyes with one hand, while in the other,
which rested on the table, lay poor little Pecksy. Norman, stealing up
close to her, gazed at the bird. It lay on its back with its delicate
little legs in the air, its feathers were ruffled, and a drop of blood
was on its beak.

"It does not move, but perhaps it is sleeping," thought Norman; "yet I
never saw a bird sleep in that way. I am afraid it must be dead; and if
it is, what will Fanny do to me? She will box my ears harder than she
ever did, and then she will tell the laird, and he will whip me, to a
certainty."

Norman moved a little nearer. Fanny heard him, and, lifting up her head
from her hand, she looked at him for a moment, and said in a low voice--

"O Norman, poor Pecksy is dead," and then again burst into tears.

CHAPTER NINE.

SORROW IS NOT REPENTANCE.

Norman had intended to run away and hide himself should he find that he
really had killed the little bird. He was sure that Fanny and everybody
else would be ready to beat him, but her gentle, though reproachful,
tone greatly calmed his fears.

"If she is not angry, I suppose that others will not be," he thought, as
he stood by her side, with his eyes still fixed on the dead bird. "I
wish I had not done it; if I had frightened her by merely letting the
book drop near the bird, it would have been enough. Oh dear! oh dear!
I wish I could bring it to life again! Can it really be dead?"

As these expressions were uttered in a very low voice, they did not
reach Fanny's ears. For some minutes she did not move. He could not
longer endure to watch her silent grief.

"Fanny," he said, in a gentle voice, very unusual for him, "is little
Pecksy really dead? Do look and see; perhaps you can make it come to
life again. I wish you could; I am so sorry I hit it so hard."

Fanny lifted her head from her hands, and turned her eyes towards the
little bird. She got up from her chair, and examined it carefully.

"Give it something to eat, perh