but clear, a fine and vibrant humming, the
distant music of wings! The faint, steady pulsing was drawing nearer
and nearer--nearer still--it must be flying quite high. The hateful
letters scattered about her as she sprang to the open window--no, it
was too high to see, and too dark, though the sky was powdered with
stars--but she could hear it clearly, hovering and throbbing like
some gigantic bird. It must be almost directly over her head, if she
could only see it.

"It sounds--it sounds the way a humming-bird would look through a
telescope," she said half aloud, and Rosemary murmured sleepily but
courteously, "What, Janet?"

"Just an airplane--no, gone now. It sounded like a bird. Didn't you
hear it?"

"No," replied Rosemary drowsily. "We get so used to the old things
that we don't even notice them any more. Queer time to be flying!"

"It sounded rather--beautiful," said Janet, her face still turned to
the stars. "Far off, but so clear and sure. I wonder--I wonder
whether it will be coming back?"

Well, it came back. She went down to White Orchards with Rosemary
for the following week-end, and after she had smoothed her hair and
given a scornful glance at the pale face in the mirror, with its
shadowy eyes and defiant mouth, she slipped out to the lower terrace
for a breath of the soft country air. Halfway down the flight of
steps she stumbled and caught at the balustrade, and stood shaking
for a moment, her face pressed against its rough surface. Once
before--once before she had stumbled on those steps, but it was not
the balustrade that had saved her. She could feel his arms about her
now, holding her up, holding her close and safe. The magical voice
was in her ears. "Let you go? I'll never let you go! Poor little feet,
stumblin' in the dark, what would you do without Jerry? Time's comin',
you cheeky little devils, when you'll come runnin' to him when he
whistles! No use tryin' to get away--you belong to him."

Oh, whistle to them now, Jerry--they would run to you across the
stars!

"How'd you like to marry me before I go back to-morrow? No? No
accountin' for tastes, Miss Abbott--lots of people would simply jump
at it! All right--April, then. Birds and flowers and all that kind
o' thing--pretty intoxicatin', what? No, keep still, darlin' goose.
What feller taught you to wear a dress that looks like roses and
smells like roses and feels like roses? This feller? Lord help us,
what a lovely liar!"

And sudd