g on him have killed him. I am so sorry. I wish, now, I
had left him to sing happily in the garden, Mrs. Dashwood," he said,
going back to where the ladies sat together, carrying the poor dead
thrush in his hand. "You were quite right; it was a great pity to
take the poor bird and put him in a cage. I will never catch a young
bird again--never."

"Poor little creature! I thought it would not live long," said Miss
Kerr; "but, Bunny, you were very naughty to run away with it in that
way; I am sure the fall helped to kill the thrush."

"I didn't mean to kill it!" cried Bunny in a choking voice. "Oh!
mama, I am so sorry!" and she flung herself on the ground beside her
mother's chair, and buried her face in her lap.

"Never mind, Bunny, dear," whispered Mervyn softly, as he stole up
and put his arm round her neck. "Don't cry, dear; I am sure it would
have died very soon anyway. Wouldn't it, Miss Kerr?"

"Yes, dear, I think it would," said the governess gently. "But what
are you going to do with the thrush, Frank?"

"Oh! I suppose I must bury it," answered Frank; "I wish I had a
pretty box to put it in."

"I have one, I have one," cried Bunny, jumping quickly to her feet,
and running off towards the house, mopping up her tears as she went
along. "I've got a dear little one that will just do, Frank."

"We must have a solemn funeral," said young Collins. "Who will write
an epitaph to put at the head of his grave?"

"An epee--what, Frank?" asked Mervyn, with a puzzled look on his
little face. "What do you mean?"

"An epitaph, you little simple Indian; do you not know what that
means?"

"No," said Mervyn gravely, "I don't think people in India ever have
such things."

"Don't they indeed! Bunny, what is an epitaph?" asked Frank,
laughing merrily as he took a pretty bon-bon box from the little
girl's hand.

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Bunny; "I never heard of such a
thing. What is it yourself?"

"Well, you are a clever pair! Why, it's something written on a
tombstone," cried Frank, and, taking a piece of paper out of his
pocket, he scribbled a few words, and then proceeded to read them
aloud. "Listen and learn what an epitaph is, my friends:--

"Beneath there lies a little thrush,
Who should have sung on many a bush."

"Capital!" said Miss Kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant
production. "Why, you are a regular poet!"

"It is very good indeed, Frank," said Mrs. Dashwood with a bright
smile. "N