"Poor little birdie," she said gently, as she held it up to examine it more closely. "I wonder if its troubles are really over," she added to herself softly, not wishing to rouse Hoodie's hopes before she was sure of grounds for them. "No—it is not dead. It certainly is not—only stunned and terrified. Hoodie, the little bird is not dead. Leave off crying dear, and look at it. See, its little heart is beating quite plainly—there now, it is moving its wings. I don't think it is even much, or at all hurt."

Hoodie drew near, her tear-stained cheeks all glowing with eagerness, holding her breath just as she did when her father for a great treat let her peep into the works of his watch.

"Him's not dead," she exclaimed. "Oh, Cousin Magdalen, are you sure him's not dead? Oh, what can we do to make him quite well again?"

She clasped her hands together with intense eagerness, and looked up in Magdalen's face as if her very life hung upon her words.

"It must have fallen out of the nest," said Magdalen, looking up as she spoke at some of the trees near where they stood. "Still it seemed fully fledged, and it should be quite able to fly—most likely its parents suppose it is out in the world on its own account by now, and even if we could find the nest, it is pretty sure to be deserted."

"You won't put it back in the netst, Cousin Magdalen—you don't mean that? It wouldn't have nothing to eat, and it would die," said Hoodie, the tears welling up again, for she hardly understood what her cousin was saying.

"No, dear. I don't think it would be any good putting it back in the nest, and it would be very difficult to know which was its nest, there must be so many up in those trees," said Magdalen. "Besides, as you say, it wouldn't get anything to eat, for if all its brothers and sisters have flown away, the parent birds will not return to the nest. No, I think we had better take it into the house and take care of it till it gets quite strong. See, Hoodie, it is beginning to get out of its fright and to look about it."

"The darling," said Hoodie, ecstatically. "It's cocking up its sweet little head as if it wanted me to kiss it. Oh, dear Cousin Magdalen, isn't it sweet? Do let me carry it into the house."



But Magdalen told her it was better to leave the bird for the present in her handkerchief, which she had made into a comfortable little nest for it, "till we can find a cage for it; there is sure to be an empty cage of some kind about the house. And then we must see if your mother will give you leave to keep it for a while."

"For alvays!" said Hoodie. "I must keep it for alvays, Maudie's godmother. Maudie has two calanies in a cage, so I might have one bird—mightn't I, Cousin Magdalen?"

"We'll ask your mother," repeated Magdalen, afraid of committing herself to a child like Hoodie, who never, under any circumstances, forgot anything in the shape of a promise that was made to her, or had the least mercy on any unfortunate "big person" that showed any signs of "crying off" from such.



CHAPTER IX.

THE GOLDEN CAGE.

"Here secure from every danger, Hop about, and chirp, and eat."

"Yes," repeated Hoodie to herself, as she followed her cousin into the house, "I'll keep the little bird alvays, and I'll teach it to love me; I'll be so vezzy kind to it."

And as they entered the billiard-room where, true to her charge, faithful little Maudie was drying and warming the twins' feet by the fire, Hoodie exclaimed with great triumph—

"It's a bird, Maudie, a most bootiful bird, and I'm going to have it all for my vezzy own and keep it in a cage alvays. Cousin Magdalen is going to ask Mamma. May I go and tell her to come now quick, Cousin Magdalen?"

"No, my dear, certainly not. Your mother's busy and must not be interrupted. You may go and ask for a little milk and a bit of bread, and I'll try if I can make the little bird eat something. It's opening its mouth as if it was hungry. But no—stop, Hoodie. I was forgetting what a state you are in. Maudie, take off her shoes and stockings too—that's a kind little girl. I'll help you in a minute when I've found a safe place for the little bird. There now—that'll do beautifully," as she spoke taking the skeins of wool out of her little work-basket and putting the bird in instead and carefully closing the lid. The children looked on with great interest.

"Is him always to live in zere, Cousin Magdalen?" inquired Hec.

Magdalen was by this time employed in examining into the state of Hoodie's garments. It was rather deplorable!

"It's no good, Maudie," she exclaimed at last. "She must be thoroughly undressed, for she's damp all over. I must take her up to Martin—oh, dear, what a pity! Just when we had had such a nice morning."

"But it was a vezzy good thing I saw the little bird felling down, wasn't it?" said Hoodie complacently, as she trotted off with her cousin's hand. "And Martin won't 'cold me, 'cos it was your fault for letting me go out in the wet; wasn't it, Cousin Magdalen?" she added with great satisfaction.

Magdalen, to tell the truth, found it rather difficult to keep her temper with Hoodie just then.

"Hoodie," she said sharply. "It is not right to speak like that. You know you ran away out before I could stop you."

"But if you hadn't opened the door, I couldn't have goned," was Hoodie's calm reply, with mischievous triumph in her bright eyes.

Martin received the misfortune very philosophically—perhaps she was not sorry, at the bottom of her heart, that some one else should have some experience of the trials she had with Hoodie.

"Not that she means always to be naughty, of course, Miss," she explained to Magdalen. "But she's that heedless and tiresome—oh dear! Though one could manage that if it wasn't for her queer temper—queer indeed! queer's no word for it."

"Martin, Martin," came in Hoodie's shrill voice from the inner room, where she was sitting, minus the greater part of her attire, while Martin "aired" the clean clothes, unexpectedly required, at the nursery fire. "Martin, you must go down to the kitchen at oncest, and get some bread and milk for my bird. I'm going to keep it alvays, Martin, and you mustn't let Duke and Hec touch it never."

"Well, well, Missie, we'll see," said Martin; "you must get your Mamma's leave first, you know."

"By the bye, I'd better go and speak to her about it," said Magdalen. "Shall I tell the other children to come up-stairs, Martin? And my poor letter," she said, smiling rather dolefully, as she went out of the nursery, "I'll never get it written before luncheon, for I must superintend the feeding of the bird, otherwise the children will certainly kill it with kindness."

Magdalen had a good deal of experience in rearing little birds and little lambs, and all such small unfortunates. She had always lived in the country, and having neither brothers nor sisters her tender heart had given its affections to the dumb creatures about her. It was fortunate for the foundling bird that it fell into her hands, as had it been left to Hoodie's affectionate cares its history would certainly have been quickly told. She was very indignant with Magdalen for the very tiny portions of bread and milk, which was all she would allow it to have, and asked her indignantly if she meant to "'tarve" the poor little pet.

"Hush, Hoodie," said her mother, who had come to see the little bird. "If you speak so to Cousin Magdalen I certainly will not let you keep the bird. You should thank her very much for being so kind to you and giving up all her morning to you."

Hoodie did not condescend to take any notice of her mother's reproof.

"Hoodie," said Mrs. Caryll, "do you not hear what I say?"

No reply.

"Hoodie," more sternly.

Hoodie looked up at last.

"Mamma dear," she said sweetly, "may I keep the little bird for my vezzy own? Cousin Magdalen said she would ask you if I might."

Her mother looked puzzled.

"If you are good perhaps I will let you keep it," she replied.

Hoodie looked up sharply.

"Did Cousin Magdalen ask you to let me keep it, Mamma?" she inquired.

"Yes," said her mother.

Hoodie turned to Magdalen.

"Thank you, Maudie's godmother," she said condescendingly. "I thought perhaps you had forgottened."

"And you wouldn't thank me till you were sure—was that it—eh, Hoodie?" said Magdalen.

One of her funny twinkles came into Hoodie's green eyes.

"I like peoples what doesn't forget," she remarked, with a toss of her shaggy head.

Magdalen turned away to hide her amusement, but Hoodie's mother whispered rather dolefully, "Magdalen, was there ever such a child?"

And Hoodie heard the words, and her little face grew hard and sullen.

"I'm always naughty," she said to herself. "Naughty when I tell true, and naughty when I don't tell true. Nobody loves me, but I'll teach my bird to love me."

"What is to be done about a cage for this little creature?" said Magdalen, looking up from her occupation of feeding the greenfinch with quillfuls of bread and milk. "Isn't there an old one anywhere about, that would do?"

"I'm afraid not," said Hoodie's mother. "What can we do?"

"Leave it in the basket for the present," said Magdalen. "And—if Hoodie is very good, perhaps——"

"Perhaps what?" said Hoodie, very eagerly.

"Perhaps some kind fairy will fly down with a cage for the poor little bird," said Magdalen, mysteriously.

Again Hoodie's eyes twinkled with fun.

"I know who the kind fairy will be," she said, skipping about in delight. Then suddenly she flung herself upon her cousin and hugged her valorously.

"I do love you, Cousin Magdalen," she whispered. "I do. I do. And I'd love Mamma too," she added—her mother having left the room—"if she wouldn't alvays say I'm naughty."

"But Hoodie, my dear little girl, do you really think you are always good?" said Magdalen.

"In course not," said Hoodie, "but I'm not alvays naughty neither."

Just then the luncheon-bell rang, and the interesting discussion, greatly, it is to be feared, to Hoodie's satisfaction, could not be continued.

"You're going to be very good to-day, any way, aren't you, Hoodie?" whispered Magdalen, as they went into the dining-room, where the children dined at the big people's luncheon.

"P'raps," replied Hoodie.

"Because you know the kind fairy can't give you the cage if you're not," said Magdalen, smiling.

"I forgot about that," observed Hoodie, coolly.

And her behaviour during the meal left nothing to be desired. But to do her justice, her naughtiness did not as a rule show itself in such circumstances, and according to Martin this was the "provokingest" part of it. "That a little lady who could be so pretty behaved if she chose should stamp and scream and rage like a little wild bear"—though where Martin had seen these wonderful performances of little wild bears, I am sorry to say I cannot tell you—was aggravating, there is no doubt. And as Magdalen watched Hoodie through luncheon, and saw her pretty way of handling her knife and fork, and noticed how she never asked for anything but waited till it was offered her, never forgot her "if you please's" and "thank you's," and was always perfectly content with whatever was given her, she repeated to herself in other words Martin's often expressed opinion.

"What a nice child she might be! What a nice child she is, when she likes! Oh, Hoodie, what a pity it is that you ever let the little black dog climb on to your shoulders or the little cross imps get into your heart!"

Just at that moment Hoodie caught her eye. She drew herself straight up on her chair with a little air of inviting approval.

"Am I not vezzy good?" Magdalen could almost fancy she heard her saying, and in spite of herself, she could not help smiling back at the funny little girl.

Luncheon over, the children were dismissed for their walk, for the rain was now quite over and the afternoon promised to be fine and sunny. As they were leaving the room Hoodie threw her arms round Magdalen's neck and drew her head down that she might whisper into her ear.

"Will the fairy come, does you think?" she asked.

"I hope so," said Magdalen, in the same tone; "but, Hoodie, you must promise me one thing. You must not touch the little bird while I am away. I have put it on my table in the basket and it will be quite safe there. You may go in to look at it with Maudie, but you must not touch it."

"Won't it be hungry?" inquired Hoodie.

"Oh no, I'll give it a little more before I go out, and then it will be all right till I come in. You promise, Hoodie?"

Hoodie nodded her head.

"P'omise," she repeated.

Magdalen looked after her anxiously.

"Poor little Hoodie," she said to herself, as she watched the neat little figure tripping out of the room. Just then the children's mother came over to her.

"Magdalen, my dear child," she said, "you must not worry yourself about these children. You have been looking quite careworn all the morning, and I can't have it."

"But I wanted to help you with them, so that you might have a little rest and get quite strong again, dear Beatrice," said Magdalen. "You have never been really well since your illness last winter, and Mamma and I thought I should be able to help you—and—and—" the tears came into Cousin Magdalen's pretty eyes.

"Well, dear, and who could have done more to help me than you, since you have been here? I shall miss you terribly when you go, especially about Hoodie," and in spite of her wish to cheer Magdalen, Hoodie's mother gave a little sigh.

"It was about Hoodie I was thinking," said Magdalen. "I was so anxious to do her good."

"And don't you think you have?"

Magdalen hesitated.

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I have made an impression on her, and then it seems all to have gone off again. She is such a queer mixture—in some ways so old for her age, and in some ways such a baby."

"Yes," said Mrs. Caryll. "It is so very difficult to know how to treat her. But she is very fond of you, Magdalen, and I am so glad to see it. We really used to think it wasn't in her to be fond of any one."

"But I am sure it is in her," said Magdalen, "only—I hardly can say what I mean—if she could be made to believe that other people love her, that she could be of use to others—I think that would take away the sort of defiance and hardness one sees in her sometimes. It is so unlike a child. She is always imagining people don't care for her, and then she takes actual pleasure in being as naughty as she can be."

"Yes," said Hoodie's mother; "there really are days when she goes out of her way to be naughty, one might say,—when it is enough for Martin to tell her to do or not to do anything, for her to wish to do or not to do the opposite. Still she has been better lately, Magdalen, and it is all thanks to you."

"Poor little Hoodie!" said her cousin, "I wonder why it should be so very difficult for her to be good. But we must get ready now, must we not, Beatrice? And whatever I do I must not forget the cage, or any good I can ever hope to do Hoodie will be at an end!"

"But she is only to have it if she really has been good?" said Mrs. Caryll, who was sometimes afraid that Magdalen was rather inclined to spoil Hoodie.

"Only if she has been good, you may be sure," said Magdalen. "And there is one thing about Hoodie—she does keep a promise."

"You think she is honest and truthful?" said Mrs. Caryll.

"By nature I am sure she is. But her brain is so full of fancies that she hardly understands herself, that I can quite see how sometimes it must seem as if she were not straightforward. Not that the fancies would do her any harm if they were all happy and pretty ones—but I do wish she could get rid of the idea that no one cares for her. It is that that sours her and spoils her, poor little girl."

Hoodie's mother looked affectionately at Magdalen.

"Where have you learnt to be so wise about children, Magda?" she said. "You seem to understand them as if you had lived among them all your life."

"It is only because I love them so much," said Magdalen, simply. "And often somehow——" she hesitated.

"Often what?" said her cousin, smiling.

"I was going to say—but I stopped because I thought perhaps you would not like it as we were talking of your children who have everything to make them happy—" said Magdalen. "I was going to say that sometimes, often, I am so very, very sorry for children. Even their naughtinesses and sillinesses make me sorry for them. They are so strange to it all—and it is so difficult to learn wisdom."

Hoodie's mother smiled again.

"You are such a venerable owl yourself, you funny child," she said. "However, I do understand you, and I agree with you. I do feel very sorry for poor Hoodie sometimes, even though she really goes out of her way to make herself unhappy. But what is one to do?"

"Yes, that is the puzzle," said Magdalen. "In the first place any way, I am going to buy her a cage for her bird—it will be good for her to take regular care of the bird. I am so glad you said she might keep it."

"I only hope we shall be able to rear it," said Mrs. Caryll. "Hoodie would indeed think all the powers were against her if it died. That is the worst of pets."

"I think this bird will get on, if it is taken care of and not over-fed," said Magdalen. "It is a greenfinch, you know, and greenfinches take kindly to domestic life. Besides, it is not so very young a bird, and it looks quite bright and happy now that it has got over its fright," and so saying she followed Hoodie's mother out of the room to prepare for their drive.

It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when they returned. Cousin Magdalen ran joyously up-stairs to the nursery carrying a very funnily-shaped parcel in her hand. The children were all at tea. She heard their voices and the clatter and tinkle that always accompanies a nursery meal as she came along the passage, and she opened the door so softly that for a moment or two she stood watching the little party before any of them noticed her.

How nice and pretty and happy they looked! Martin, a perfect picture of a kind, tidy nurse, sat pouring out the tea, looking for once quite easy-minded and at rest; Maudie, a little model of neatness as usual, her small sweet face wearing an expression of the utmost gravity as she carefully spread some honey on Hec's bread and butter; Duke, frowning with eagerness to understand some mysterious communication which his neighbour Hoodie was making to him in a low voice, her eyes bright with excitement, her cheeks rosy, and her pretty fat shoulders "shruggled" up, as she bent to whisper to her little brother.

"What do you say, Hoodie? I don't under'tand. How could it be all of gold?" were the first words that met Magdalen's ears.

"Hush, Duke," said Hoodie, placing her sticky little hand on his mouth, "you're not to tell. I didn't say it would be all gold. I said p'raps the little points at the top would be goldy—like the shiny top of the point on the church. But you're too little to know what I mean. You must wait till—Oh!" with a scream of delight, "there's Maudie's godmother! Oh, Maudie's godmother, Maudie's godmother, have you got it?"

She was off her seat and in Magdalen's arms in an instant—hugging, jumping, kissing, dancing with eagerness. It was all Magdalen could do not at once to hold out to her the parcel, but her promise to Hoodie's mother must not be broken.

"Yes," she said, "I have got it. But first tell me, Hoodie dear—have you been really a good little girl all the afternoon? Has she, Martin?"

"Oh, trually I've been good—vezzy good—haven't I, Martin?" said Hoodie.

"Yes, Miss. I must really say she has been very good. I don't remember ever having a more peacefuller afternoon," said Martin with great satisfaction.

"I am so glad," said Magdalen. "And you didn't touch the bird, Hoodie?"

"No, oh no, I didn't touch it one bit," said Hoodie earnestly. "I went and lookened at it, but I didn't touch it. Martin will tell you."

"No, Miss, she was quite good. She just stood and peeped at it, but she didn't touch it, I'm sure, for I went with her to your room and stayed there a few minutes while she looked at the bird."

"That was very nice," said Magdalen.

"We didn't let Hec and Duke go," said Hoodie, "for they'd have wanted to touch the bird, wouldn't they? They're so little, you see, and Hec says he likes smooving down the feavers on little birds's backs, so Martin and me thought we'd better not let them be temptationed to touch the bird."

"Ah, yes, that was very wise. And as Martin stayed with you, you weren't temptationed either, were you, Hoodie?"

Somewhat to her surprise, at this Hoodie grew rather red.

"I didn't stay all the time, Miss," said Martin. "I heard the little boys calling me, so I left Miss Hoodie for a minute or two feeling sure I might trust her."

"So there's nothing to prevent my giving you the cage. That's very nice," said Magdalen. She lifted the funny-looking parcel on to the table and unfastened the paper. There stood the cage—and such a pretty one! It was painted white and green, and greatly and specially to Hoodie's satisfaction the pointed tops of the pagoda-like roof were gilt.

"Didn't I tell you so," she said to Duke in a tone of great superiority, "I told you there'd be goldy points on the top."

"Yes," said Duke, much impressed; "I wonder how you knowed, Hoodie?"

Hoodie tossed her head.

"Knowed, in course I knowed," she said.

Only Hec did not seem as much interested and delighted as the others. He just glanced at the cage and then subsided again to his bread and honey.

"What's the matter with Hec?" said Cousin Magdalen. "He doesn't look as bright as usual, does he, Martin?"

"He's been very quiet all the afternoon," said Martin, "but I don't think he can be ill. He's eaten a good tea, hasn't he, Miss Maudie?"

"Very," said Maudie. "Three big slices first—only with butter, you know, and then six with honey. We always have to eat three plain first, on honey days," she added by way of explanation to her cousin.

"Nine slices," said Magdalen, opening her eyes. "Martin, isn't that enough to make him ill?"

"Bless you, no, Miss," said Martin, laughing. "As long as it's bread and butter, there's not much fear."

"Or bread and honey," corrected Hoodie. "One day Duke and Hec and me—Maudie wasn't there—one day Duke and Hec and me eatened firty-two slices—Martin counted. It was when we was at the seaside."

"My dear Hoodie!" exclaimed Magdalen, and the astonishment on her face made them all laugh.

The consumption of bread and butter and honey seemed however over for the present, so Magdalen led the way to her own room, followed by Hoodie carrying the precious cage which she would entrust to no other hands, Maudie, the twins, and Martin bringing up the rear.

Magdalen opened the door and crossed the room, which was a large one, to the side window, on the writing-table, in front of which, she had left the basket containing the bird. She had placed it carefully, with a little circle of books round it to prevent the bird's fluttering knocking it over. As she came near the table, she gave an exclamation of surprise and vexation. The circle of books was still there undisturbed, but the basket was no longer in the centre—indeed, at the first glance Magdalen could not see it at all.

"Oh dear!" she exclaimed. "Where can the basket be? Hoodie, you surely didn't touch it?"

The moment she had said the words she regretted them—but just at first she had not time to look at Hoodie to see how she had taken them, for another glance at the table showed her the basket peeping up behind the edge where it had slipped down, though fortunately the table was pushed too near the wall for it to have fallen quite on to the floor.

Magdalen darted forward and carefully drew out the basket, in considerable fear and trembling as to the state of the little bird inside. But to her relief it seemed all right. It had had another fright, no doubt, poor thing—it must have thought life a very queer series of falls and bumps and knocks, I should think, judging by its own experience, but still it seemed to have a happy faculty of recovering itself, and though its position in the toppled-over basket could not have been very comfortable, it looked quite bright and chirpy when Magdalen gently lifted the lid to examine it.

"It is hungry, I'm sure," she said; "can't you give me a little bread soaked in milk for it again, Martin. There's some milk on the nursery table, isn't there?"

"To be sure, Miss," said Martin, starting off at once. To her surprise, as she left the room she felt a hand slipped into hers. It was Hoodie's.

"I'll go with you," said the child, and Martin, thinking she only wanted to go with her to see about the bread and milk, made no objection. It was not till they reached the nursery that Martin noticed the expression of the little girl's face. It was stormy in the extreme.

"I won't go back to Maudie's godmother's room," she exclaimed. "I won't have the cage. I won't speak to her—nasty, ugly Maudie's godmother."

"Miss Hoodie!" said Martin, in amazement and distress. "You speaking that naughty way of your cousin who has been so very nice and kind to you."

"I don't care," said Hoodie, fairly on the way to one of her grandest tempers, "I don't care. She's not nice and kind. She doesn't believe what I say. I toldened her I didn't touch the basket, and she said I did."

"Oh no, Miss Hoodie, my dear, I'm sure she didn't say that. She only asked you if you were quite sure you didn't. And who could have done it, I'm sure I can't think," said Martin, herself by no means satisfied that Hoodie's indignation was not a sign of her knowing herself to blame. "No one was in the room but you and me this afternoon, for none of the servants ever go near it till dressing time. Besides, they wouldn't go touching the bird. If it had been one of the little boys now. It's just what they might have done, reaching up to get it. But they weren't there at all."

"I don't care," reiterated Hoodie. "I didn't do it, but Maudie's godmother doesn't believe me. I don't care. But I won't have the cage." And in spite of all Martin could say, the child resolutely refused to leave the nursery.

Hoodie sat there alone, nursing her wrath and bitter feelings.

"I don't care," she kept repeating to herself. "Nobody likes me. I'm alvays naughty. What's the good of being good? I did so want to touch the bird when Martin went out of the room and left me alone, but I didn't, 'cos I'd p'omised. I might as well, 'cos Maudie's godmother doesn't believe me. It's very unkind of God to make it seem that I'm alvays naughty. It's not my fault. I don't care."

In Magdalen's room Martin was relating Hoodie's indignation.

"Oh, how sorry I am for saying that," said Magdalen. "It will just make her lose her trust in me. And I do believe her. I'm sure she didn't touch it. Don't you think so, Martin?"

Martin hesitated.

"Yes, Miss, I do think I believe her. Only didn't you notice how red she got when I said I wasn't with her all the time in your room this afternoon?"

"Yes," said Magdalen; "but I thought it was just that she felt so eager for me to know she had kept her promise. I don't think she touched it, Martin. I really don't. But I am afraid it will be difficult to make her believe I don't."

Just then a sudden sound of weeping made them all start, thinking for a moment that it must be Hoodie herself, who had run back from the nursery. But no—it was not Hoodie—it was Hec. The little fellow had crept under the table unobserved, and there had been listening to the conversation.

"What's the matter, dear? What's the matter, my darling? Don't cry so, Master Hec," said Martin, as she drew him out.

"Poor Hec! Poor little Hec! Has he hurt himself?" exclaimed all the others.

"No, no, I hasn't hurt myself," sobbed Hec. "I'm crying 'cos it was me. It was me that tumbled the basket down, and Cousin Magdalen 'colded Hoodie. It wasn't poor Hoodie. It was all me."

And for some minutes, conscience-stricken Hec refused to be comforted.



CHAPTER X.

FLOWN.

"One flew away, and then there was none."

THREE LITTLE BIRDS.

Hoodie sat alone in the nursery, wrathful and sore. All the pleasure in the little bird and the beautiful cage seemed to have gone.

"I don't love her neither, not now," she said to herself. "I don't think—no, I really don't think I love anybody, 'cos nobody loves me, and ev'ybody thinks I'm naughty. Never mind—I'll go away some day. As soon as ever I'm big enough I'll go kite away and never come back again, and I sha'n't care what anybody says then."

There was some comfort though of a rather vague kind in this thought. Hoodie sat swinging her legs backwards and forwards, while queer fancies of where she would go—what she would do, once she was "big enough," chased each other round her busy little brain.

Suddenly a sound in the passage outside the nursery door made her look up just in time to see the door open and Magdalen, leading tearful Hec by the hand, followed by Maudie, Duke, and Martin, come in.

Hoodie looked up with some curiosity.

"Hoodie," said Magdalen, "Hec wants to tell you how sorry he is that you have got blamed on his account. It was he that touched the basket and knocked it over. He ran into my room to look at the bird without Martin's knowing he had left the nursery, and he was so afraid that he had hurt the little bird, by knocking it over, that he didn't like to tell. Kiss him and speak kindly to him, poor little boy, Hoodie dear. He has been so unhappy."

Hoodie gravely contemplated her little brother, but without giving any signs of obeying her cousin's request.

"I have been unhappy too," she said, "and it wasn't my fault. It was Hec's."

"Well, then," said Magdalen, "it should make you the more sorry for Hec. He has had the unhappiness of knowing it was his fault, which is the worst unhappiness of all."

Hoodie threw back her head.

"I don't think so," she said. "I think the worst is when people alvays says you're naughty when you're not."

"I am sorry you thought I said you were naughty when you weren't, Hoodie," said Magdalen, "but you thought I meant more than I did. As soon as I thought about it quietly I felt sure you hadn't touched the basket—and even more sure, that if you had been tempted to touch it, you would have said so."

"'Cos Hec toldened you it was him," said Hoodie.

"No, before Hec said a word, I said to Martin I was sure it wasn't you."

Hoodie looked up with a new light in her eyes.

"Did you?" she said, as if hardly able to believe it.

"Yes, indeed, Miss Hoodie," said Martin, "Miss King did say so. And very kind of her it was, to trust you so, for you did look very funny when I said you had been a few minutes alone in the room."

Hoodie flamed round upon her.

"It's vezzy nasty of you to say that, Martin," she exclaimed violently. "Vezzy nasty. You alvays think I'm naughty. I daresay I did look funny, 'cos I was temptationed, awful temptationed to touch the bird, but I wouldn't, no I wouldn't, 'cos I'd p'omised."

And at last her mingled feelings found relief in a burst of sobs.

The sight was too much for Hec, already in a sorely depressed and tearful condition. He threw his arms round Hoodie, nearly dragging her off her chair in his endeavours to get her shaggy head down to the level of his own close-cropped dark one for an embrace.

"Oh Hoodie, Hoodie, dear Hoodie, don't cry," he beseeched her. "It's all Hec's fault. Naughty Hec. Oh Hoodie, please 'agive me and kiss me, and I'll never, never touch your bird again."



Hoodie was quite melted.

"Dear Hec—poor Hec," she cried in her turn. "Don't cry, dear Hec," and the two little creatures hugged and kissed and cried, all in one.

"Let's kiss Maudie's godmother too. She didn't think you was naughty, Hoodie," suggested Hec, and Hoodie at once took his advice, so the kissing and hugging were transferred to poor Magdalen, who bore them heroically, till at last she was so very nearly smothered that she was obliged to cry for mercy.

"And let us go back to my room now," she said, "and introduce the little bird to its new house. It hasn't seen it yet, you know, Hoodie."

"Hasn't it?" said Hoodie.

"Of course not. The cage is yours—your very own. I waited for you to come before putting the bird in it."

"That was vezzy good of you," said Hoodie, approvingly; and as happy and light-hearted as if no temper or trouble of any kind had ever come near her, she took Hec's hand and trotted off with her cousin to help in the installation of the bird in its beautiful cage.

"What funny creatures children are," said Magdalen to herself, "and of them all surely Hoodie is the funniest."

It would be impossible to tell the pleasure that the possession of the little bird gave to Hoodie, and the devotion she showed to it. For some days its cage remained in Miss King's room, that Cousin Magdalen herself might watch how the little creature got on, and there, as Martin said, "morning, noon, and night," Hoodie was to be found. It was the prettiest sight to see her, seated by the table, her elbows resting upon it, and her chubby face leaning on her hands, while her eyes eagerly followed every movement of her favourite. She was never tired of sitting thus, she was never cross or impatient, nor did she ever attempt to touch the greenfinch without Magdalen's leave. And finding that the little girl was so gentle and obedient, and that the bird gave her such pleasure, Magdalen kindly did her utmost to increase this pleasure. She taught Hoodie how to tame and make friends with her pet, to call to it with her soft little voice—for no one could have a softer or prettier voice than Hoodie when she chose—always in the same tone, till the bird learnt to recognize it and to come at her summons. And oh the delight of the first time this happened! Hoodie was holding out her hand, the forefinger outstretched to the open door of the cage, half-cooing, half-whistling, in the pretty way Magdalen had taught her, when birdie, its head cocked on one side as if half in timidity, half in coquetry, at last mustered up courage and hopped on to the fat little pink finger.

Hoodie nearly screamed with delight, but recollected herself just in time not to frighten the bird.

"Oh, Cousin Magdalen," she whispered in the most tremendous excitement, "Him is pouching, him's pouching on my finger. Oh the darling,—look, look, Maudie's godmother."

But before Maudie's godmother could get across the room to look, Mr. Birdie had hopped off its new perch, and the experiment had to be repeated.

"Come and pouch, birdie, dear birdie; do come and pouch on my finger," said Hoodie, beseechingly.

"Call it the way I taught you," whispered Magdalen.

Hoodie did so, and at the sound of her well-known call, the greenfinch cocked its head, looked round on all sides, appeared to consider, and at last condescended again to hop on to its little Mistress's finger.

"Isn't it sweet?" said Hoodie ecstatically, though scarcely daring to breathe for fear of disturbing it.

"If you take care never to startle it," said Magdalen, "it will get in the way of coming regularly whenever you call it. Never let it hear you speaking angrily or roughly, Hoodie. That would startle it more than anything."

"Would it?" said Hoodie, regarding her pet with affection not unmingled with respect. "Would it know I was naughty? Cousin Magdalen," she added, looking up into her friend's face with considerable awe in her bright green eyes; "Cousin Magdalen, do you think p'raps my bird's a fairy, and that God sent it to teach me to be good?"

Fortunately by this time Magdalen's intercourse with Hoodie had taught her the necessity of great control of herself. Whatever Hoodie said or did, she must not be laughed at—not even smiled at, if in the smile there lurked the slightest shadow of ridicule. Once let Hoodie imagine she was being made fun of and all hope of leading her and making her love and trust you was over.

So Magdalen's face remained quite grave as she replied to Hoodie's question,

"I think that everything nice and pretty that comes to us is sent by God, dear. And He means them all to teach us to be good. But I don't think you need fancy your little bird is a fairy."

"It's so clever," said Hoodie. "Fancy him knowing when I call. Do you think some day it'll learn to speak, Cousin Magdalen?"

Cousin Magdalen shook her head.

"I'm afraid not. It isn't the kind of bird that ever learns to speak," she replied, as gravely as before. "But I shouldn't wonder if it learns to know you very well—to come in a moment when it hears you call, and to show you that it is pleased to see you."

"Oh how lovely that'll be," said Hoodie, dancing about with delight. "Fancy it coming on my finger whenever I say 'Birdie dear, come and pouch.' I'll never let it hear me speak c'oss, Cousin Magdalen. Whenever I feel it coming I'll go out of the room and shut the door tight so it sha'n't hear me."

"Whenever you feel what coming?" asked Magdalen.

"It," repeated Hoodie, "c'ossness, you know. It must come sometimes—all chindrel is c'oss sometimes," she added complacently.

"Well, but suppose some children were to make up their minds to be cross no times," said Magdalen with a smile. "Wouldn't that be a good thing? Suppose a little girl I know, not very far from here, was to set the example."

Hoodie laughed.

"Cousin Magdalen," she said, with an accent on the name that she always gave when amused. "Cousin Magdalen, how funny you are! I know who you mean—yes, I do, kite well. But she couldn't, that little girl couldn't help being c'oss sometimes."

She shook her head sagaciously.

"Well, any way," said Magdalen, "try and let the 'sometimes' come as seldom as possible. Won't you do that, Hoodie?"

Just then there came a tap at the door.

"Miss Hoodie," said Martin's voice. "Come to tea, please. It's quite ready."

Hoodie gave an impatient shake. Fortunately the bird was no longer on her finger, otherwise its nerves would have been considerably startled. Hoodie had been on the point of putting her hand into the cage to entice it to hop on to her finger and thus to lift it out when Martin's summons came.

"I don't want any tea," she said; "do go away, Martin. You alvays come for me when I don't want to go."

"Hoodie," whispered Magdalen, "the bird will be quite frightened to hear you speak like that."

Hoodie looked startled.

"Oh dear," she said. "I quite forgot. You see, Cousin Magdalen, it will come. There's no good trying to keep it away."

"Yes, there is," said Magdalen. "There's good in trying to keep it away, and there's good in trying to send it away even after it's come. You're sending it away now, Hoodie, I think."

"Am I?" said Hoodie, doubtfully. Then with a sudden change of tone, "Well, I will then. I'll go goodly with Martin. Martin," she said amiably, turning to her nurse, "I'm coming. I'll go out of the room kite goodly and quiet, and then perhaps birdie won't remember about my speaking c'oss."

"I daresay he won't," said Magdalen encouragingly. "I'll give him some fresh seed to eat, as it's rather low in his box, and that will give him something else to think of. But I won't speak to him, Hoodie. I never do, because I want him to learn to know your voice."

"That's out of the Bible," was Hoodie's parting remark, as she went off with Martin, quite "goodly," as she had promised.

Day by day Hoodie loved her bird more and more, and her love was repaid by great success in taming the little creature. It grew to know her wonderfully well, to hop on to her rosy finger when she called to it, adding always, "Birdie, birdie, come and pouch," with a soft clear note of delight that it was quite a pleasure to hear. Its cage was placed in the window of a little ante-room, out of which Miss King's room opened. There had been some talk of putting it in the nursery, but Hoodie pleaded against this. The cat had been known to enter the nursery, for Hec and Duke were rather fond of old pussy, and Prince was a frequent visitor there. And besides this, Hoodie could not feel quite sure that her little brothers might not be some day "temptationed" to touch her favourite. It was pretty clear any way that birdie's residence in the nursery would be a source of quarrels, so Mother and Magdalen and Martin agreed that the ante-room window would be the best and safest place.

"It isn't as if winter was coming instead of summer," said Magdalen. "In that case a room without a fire would be too cold for it. But every day, now, the weather is getting brighter and warmer. What are you looking so grave about, Hoodie?"

Hoodie looked up solemnly.

"I were just thinking," she replied, "what a pity it would be if winter comed back again instead of summer, just when we've settled about my bird so nicely—by mistake you know."

"But winter and summer don't come of themselves, Miss Hoodie," said Martin. "You know God sends them, and He never makes mistakes."

"But supposing He did," said Hoodie, "you are so stupid, Martin. You might suppose."

"Hoodie!" said Magdalen, warningly.

Hoodie gave a wriggle, but said no more. Not that she was vanquished however. She waited till bed-time, and then, after saying aloud as usual her little evening prayer, added a special clause for Martin's edification. "And p'ease, dear God, be sure not to forget to send the nice warm summer for my little bird, and don't let cold winter come back again by mistake."

"It'll do no harm to 'amind God, any way," she observed with satisfaction, as she lay down in bed and composed herself for her night's repose.

Weeks passed on and the nice warm summer came. Hoodie's devotion to her bird seemed to increase as time went on, and so much of her time was spent beside its cage that the nursery peace and quiet were much greater than before its arrival.

One day, just after the nursery breakfast, she hastened to her pet as usual. Rather to her vexation she saw that her two little brothers were standing by the cage, of which the door was open, Miss King beside them. Hoodie frowned, but did not venture to say anything.

"See, Hoodie," said Magdalen, "see how very confiding birdie has learnt to be. He has actually hopped on to Duke's finger when he whistled to him the way you do. It will do him no harm now to be friendly to other people too—now that he knows you so well. Look at him."

"See, Hoodie," cried Duke in delight, holding up his stumpy little forefinger, on which birdie was contentedly perched.

An ugly black cloud came over Hoodie's face. She darted forward, furious with anger.

"I won't have him pouch on your finger, Duke," she cried. "I won't have anybody call him but me. I won't. I won't—he's the only thing that loves me and nobody's to touch him. Go away, naughty Duke; ugly Duke."

She pushed Duke aside with one hand and with the other attempted, gently, notwithstanding her passion, to take the bird. The window was wide open, and the children were standing beside it. Magdalen, who was at the other side of the table on which stood the cage, hurried forward, but too late. Startled by Hoodie's loud voice, not recognizing in the furious little girl its gentle mistress, and with some instinct of self-preservation, the greenfinch, with a frightened uncertain note, flew off Duke's finger, alighted for one instant on the window-sill, from which it seemed for a moment to look at the group in the room, as if in farewell, then, before Magdalen could do anything, before Hoodie had taken in the idea of the misfortune that threatened her, raised its pretty wings with another soft reproachful note, and flew away—away out in the bright sunny garden, over the bushes and flowers, away—away—to some leafy corner up among the high trees, where there would be no angry voices to startle it, no quarrelsome children to frighten its tender little heart—no sound but the soft brush of the squirrel's furry tail among the branches, and the gentle flutter of the summer breeze. Away, away! But what did that "away" mean to poor broken-hearted Hoodie?

She stood motionless with surprise and horror—she did not dart to the window as one would have expected—ready almost to throw herself out of it in fruitless pursuit of her favourite—she stood perfectly still, as if turned into stone. But the expression on her face was so strange and unnatural that Miss King felt frightened.

"Hoodie," she exclaimed. "Hoodie, child, don't stand like that. Come to the window and call to your bird. Perhaps he will hear you and fly back."

She said it more to rouse Hoodie out of the depth of her misery than because she really thought the bird would return, for in the bottom of her heart she feared much that it had truly flown away, and that once it felt itself out in the open air its natural instinct of freedom would prevent its returning to its cage.

Hoodie started.

"Come back? Do you think he'll come back, Cousin Magdalen?" she exclaimed, and rushing to the window, and leaning out so far that Magdalen was obliged to hold her for fear she should fall over, she gave the soft clear call which her cousin had taught her—over and over again, till, tired and out of breath, she drew in her head and looked up in Magdalen's face despairingly.

"He won't come," she said, "he won't come. P'raps he's flied away too far to hear me. P'raps he can hear me but he doesn't want to come. Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I do? My bird, my bird—you always said he would fly away if he heard me speak c'oss, and I did speak c'oss, dedful c'oss. Oh! what shall I do?"

Hoodie sank down on the floor—a little heap of tears and misery. Hec and Duke flung their arms around her, beseeching her not to cry so, but there was no comfort for Hoodie.

"It was my own fault," she kept repeating, "my own fault for speaking so c'oss. The bird will never come back. Oh no, Hec and Duke, dear Hec and Duke, it isn't no good kissing me. I'll never, never be happy again, and it's my own fault."

It was impossible not to be sorry for her. Magdalen felt almost ready to burst into tears herself. She took Hoodie up in her arms and tried to comfort her.

"I don't think you should quite lose heart about birdie, Hoodie. He may come back again, once he has had a good fly. We must keep the window open, and you must keep calling to him every now and then, in the way he is used to. And perhaps it would be a good plan to go out in the garden and call—he may perhaps have flown up among the trees at the other side."

Hoodie was only too ready. Patiently, while her cousin went down to her breakfast, the little girl stood at the window calling to the truant. Every now and then the sobs that would continue to rise, made a sad little quaver in the middle, and once or twice poor Hoodie was obliged to stop altogether. But she soon began again, and every now and then between her whistles, she said in a beseeching, half heart-broken tone—

"Oh, birdie, won't you come? Come, dear birdie, oh do come and pouch on my finger. I'll never, never speak c'oss again—never, dear birdie, if only you'll come back and pouch on my finger."

It was very melancholy. Very melancholy too was the walking about the garden in vain hopes that birdie might be somewhere near and would fly down again. The whole day passed most sadly. Hoodie's eyes were swollen with crying, and she could scarcely eat any dinner or tea, and her distress naturally was felt by all the nursery party. It was one of the saddest days the children had ever known, and they all went to bed with sorely troubled little hearts.

Magdalen too was grieved and sorry.

"I blame myself," she said to Hoodie's mother. "Pets are always a risk, and Hoodie is such a strange mixture that one shouldn't run risks with her. I wish I had never suggested her keeping the bird as a pet, but I thought it might be good for her to have something of her very own to care for and attend to."

"And so it was," said Hoodie's mother. "It has done her a great deal of good; it has softened her wonderfully. We all noticed it. And even this trouble may do her good; it may teach her really to try to master that sad temper of hers."

"I had no idea she would have been so put out at Duke's playing with her bird," Magdalen went on, "or I would not have risked it."

"But she should not have been put out at it," said Mrs. Caryll. "You have nothing whatever to reproach yourself with, dear Magdalen. Hoodie must be taught that she cannot be allowed to yield to that selfish, jealous temper."

"I know," said Magdalen. "But how are we to teach her? that is the difficulty—the least severity or sternness which does good to other children, seems to rouse her very worst feelings and only to harden her. She is not hardened now, poor little soul, she is perfectly humble. Oh, how I do wish I could find her bird for her!"

"Don't trouble yourself so much about it, dear. You really must not," said Mrs. Caryll, as she bade her cousin good night.

But unfortunately those things which our friends beg us not to trouble ourselves about are generally the very things we find it the most impossible to put out of our minds. Magdalen could not leave off "troubling" about poor Hoodie. She slept little, and when she did sleep it was only to dream of the lost bird, sometimes that it was found again in all sorts of impossible places—sometimes that Hoodie was climbing a dreadfully high mountain, or attempting to swim across a deep river, where Magdalen felt that she would certainly be drowned,—in search of it. And once she dreamt that the bird flew into her room and perched at the foot of her bed, and when she exclaimed with delight at seeing it again it suddenly began to speak to her, and its voice sounded exactly like Hoodie's.

"I have come to say good-bye to you, Maudie's godmother," it said. "Nobody loves me, and I am always naughty, so I'd better go away."

And as Magdalen started up to catch the bird, or Hoodie, whichever it was—in her dream it seemed both—she awoke.

It was bright daylight already, though only five o'clock. Outside in the garden the sun was shining beautifully, the air, as Magdalen opened her window, felt deliciously fresh and sweet, everything had the peaceful untroubled look of very early morning—of a very early spring morning especially—when the birds and the flowers and the sunshine and the breezes have had it all to themselves, as it were, undisturbed by the troubles and difficulties and disagreements that busy day is sure to bring with it, as long as there are men and women, and boys and girls, in this puzzling world of ours.

Though, after all, it is better to be a child than a bird or a flower—whatever mistakes we may make, whatever wrong we may do, all, alas, adding to the great mass of mistakes and wrong—whatever sorrows we may have to bear, it is something to feel in us the power of bearing them, the power of trying to put right even what we may have helped to put wrong—best of all the power of loving each other, and of helping each other in a way that the happy, innocent birds and flowers know nothing about. Is it not better to be ourselves, after all?

Magdalen leant out of the window, enjoying the sweet air and sunshine, but thinking all the time how much more she would have enjoyed this bright morning but for her sympathy with poor Hoodie's trouble.

Suddenly a thought struck her. Possibly the bird, chilled and hungry after some hours' freedom, unaccustomed to be out in the dark, or to find food for itself—possibly he might have returned to his cage in the night. Magdalen threw on her dressing-gown and hurried into the ante-room. The window was open, the cage-door stood open too, everything was ready to welcome the little wanderer—fresh seed in the box, fresh water in the glass—Hoodie had seen to it all herself before going to bed—but that was all!

There was no little feathered occupant in the cage—it was empty, and with a fresh feeling of disappointment, Magdalen stood by the window again, looking out at the bright morning, and wondering what she could do to comfort poor Hoodie. Outside, the birds were singing merrily.

"Should I get her another bird?" thought Magdalen, "a canary, perhaps, accustomed to cage life? No, I think not. It might only lead to fresh disappointment; besides, I don't think Hoodie is the sort of child to care for another, instead. No, that wouldn't do."

Suddenly a sort of flutter in the leaves round the window-frame—Mr. Caryll's house was an old one; there were creepers all over the walls—made Magdalen look up.

"Can there be a nest in the eaves?" she said to herself, for the flutter was evidently that of a bird; and as she was watching, she saw it fly out—fly down rather from the projecting window-roof, and—to her amazement, after seeming for an instant or two to hesitate, it summoned up courage and flew a little way into the room—too high up for her to reach however, and not far enough into the room for her to venture to shut the window. She stood breathless, for as it at last settled for a moment on the curtain-rod, she saw what at first she had scarcely ventured to believe, that it was Hoodie's bird.

It stayed a moment on the rod, then it flew off again—made a turn round the room—"oh," thought Magdalen, "if it would but settle somewhere further from the window, so that I could shut it in"—But no, off it flew again—out into the open air, and Magdalen's heart sank. Patience! Another moment and it was back again, with designs on its cage apparently, but it hesitated half way. Now was the critical moment. Magdalen hesitated. Should she risk it? She stretched out her hand towards the bird and softly and tremulously whistled to it in Hoodie's well-known call. The wavering balance of birdie's intentions was turned—it cocked its head on one side, and with a pretty chirp flew towards Magdalen and perched on her finger! Slowly and cautiously, whistling softly all the time, she slipped her hand into the cage, and quickly withdrawing it the instant birdie hopped off he found himself caught.



But he seemed quite content, and in two moments was pecking at his seed as if nothing had happened.



CHAPTER XI.

HOODIE'S DISOBEDIENCE.

"Where are the pretty primroses gone, That lately bloomed in the wood?"

Notwithstanding her troubles, on account of them partly, perhaps, for nothing tires out little children more than long crying, Hoodie slept soundly that night. She was still sleeping when, at seven o'clock, Magdalen, already dressed and with the cage in her hand, came into her room to watch for her waking.

Martin, who had heard the joyful news an hour ago, stood with Miss King beside the little girl's bed and looked at her. Poor Hoodie! Her rosy face still bore traces of yesterday's weeping, and now and then through her sleep one heard that little sobbing catch in her breathing which is, to my thinking, one of the most piteous sounds in the world.

"She's tired herself out," said Martin. "She may sleep another hour or more. You'll be tired standing there, miss. Who would think Miss Hoodie had it in her to take things to heart so, for to see her sometimes she's like as if she had no heart or love in her at all."

"I think I'll put the cage on a chair beside the bed," said Magdalen, "and then she'll be sure to see it the moment she wakes."

She did so and went quietly away. Half an hour later, coming back again to see if Hoodie was still sleeping, she heard as she opened the door the sound of the little girl's voice. She had just awakened and had discovered the return of her bird. She was in an ecstasy of delight, very pretty to hear and see.

"Oh my darling little bird," she was saying, "oh my sweet, innocent pet, have you come back? oh my dear, dear bird! You didn't mean to go away from Hoodie, did you? You lost your way, didn't you? Hoodie will never speak c'oss again, birdie, never. I do think God is vezzy kind to send you back again, and I will try to please Him by being good, 'cos He's so kind."

Magdalen stood still and watched her, with pleasure, but with a strange sort of slight sadness and misgiving too. There was something almost startling in the little girl's extreme love for the bird, and it made her cousin wish it could be bestowed on a higher object.

"Why can't she love her sister and brothers more?" she thought to herself. "I do not know what she would do now if anything again happened to the bird. I wonder if it would have been better if it had not come back. But no, I must not think that. All love must do good to a nature like Hoodie's, and her love for the bird may teach her other things. And oh, I should have been sorry to leave her while she was as unhappy as she was yesterday."

Then she came forward into the room, and when Hoodie saw her, there was a fresh cry of delight, and Magdalen had to tell her over and over again exactly how it had all happened; how it was that she was up so early, how birdie flew in and then out again, and how Magdalen feared that after all she might not be able to catch him, and how delighted she was when she felt sure she had got him safe.

"I was so glad to think how pleased you would be, Hoodie, dear!" she said.

"Thank you, Cousin Magdalen, you are vezzy kind," said Hoodie. "And I think God is vezzy kind too, for you know I said my prayers to Him last night to send birdie back again, so He must have told him to come. P'raps He sent a' angel to show birdie the way. I'm going to be vezzy good now, Cousin Magdalen, awful good, alvays, 'cos God was kind and sent birdie back. Won't God be glad?"

"Yes, dear, God is always glad when His little children are good. He likes them to be happy, and being good is the only way," said Magdalen.

"But won't He be dedfully glad for me to be kite good?" said Hoodie, seemingly not quite satisfied with her cousin's tone. "I wouldn't have tried so much if He hadn't sent birdie back, but now I'm going to try awful hard."

"But, Hoodie dear, even if God hadn't sent birdie back it would have been right to try as hard as ever you could," said Magdalen. "That's what I wish you could understand—even when God doesn't do what we ask Him we should try to please Him. For He loves us just the same—better than if He did what we ask, for He knows that sometimes what we ask wouldn't be good for us. I don't think you understand that, Hoodie dear. You think when your mother, or Martin perhaps, doesn't do all at once what you ask, that it is because they don't love you. You mustn't feel that way, dear, either about your friends here, or about God, your best friend of all."

Hoodie looked up, rather puzzled. Magdalen feared she had not understood what she said, and almost regretted having said it. And afterwards she wondered what had put it into her mind to try to explain to the little girl what puzzles and bewilders far wiser people, but by the time that "afterwards" came she no longer regretted having said what she had.

"I do think God loves me now," said Hoodie, sturdily, "'cos He's sent birdie back, and so I'm going to try to be good. But if I was God I'd alvays do what ev'ybody asked me, and I'd make it be good for them, and then ev'ybody would be so pleased, they'd always try to be good."

"I'm afraid not, Hoodie," said Magdalen with a slight smile. "I'm afraid if everybody always got what they want there would soon be very little goodness left anywhere."

Hoodie at this looked more puzzled than before, but Magdalen, who had been speaking more to herself than to the child this time, did not try to explain any more. She bent over Hoodie and kissed her.

"Any way don't forget about trying to be good, and ask God to help you," she said.

The next day "Maudie's godmother" went away. She had stayed longer than she had intended, and now her father and mother could spare her no longer. The children were greatly distressed at her going. Maudie cried gently, the boys more uproariously, and all three joined in reproaching Hoodie for not crying at all. Hoodie seemed quite indifferent to their remarks.

"Why should I cry?" she said. "It would be very silly to cry when Cousin Magdalen is going back to her father and mother. Crying isn't any good."

"You don't love Cousin Magdalen," said Maudie, "if you did you couldn't help crying."

"I do love her. I love her as many times as you do, ugl"——

She stopped—Magdalen was looking at her with a look that Hoodie understood. Hoodie ran to her and threw her arms round her neck.

"I do love you, Cousin Magdalen," she whispered. "Don't you believe me? I do love you, and I'm trying dedfully to be good, to please you and God, 'cos of birdie coming back."

"I do believe you, dear," said Magdalen, and Hoodie glanced round with triumph.

I am coming now to a part of Hoodie's history which I cannot prevent being rather sad. I wish, for some reasons, I could prevent it. But true stories must be told true, and even fancy stories must be told in a fancy true way, or else they do not suit themselves. When I was a little girl I never cared for the new-fashioned "Red Riding Hood" story; the one in which she was not eaten up at the end after all, but saved by a wood-cutter at the last minute. Of course it was very nice to think of poor Red Riding Hood not being eaten up, if one could have managed to believe it. But somehow I never could, and even now whenever I think of the story the old original ending, dreadful as it was, always comes back to me. So now that I am telling you about—not Red Riding Hood—but my queer, fanciful, but still I hope lovable, Hoodie, I feel that I must go straight on and tell you what really happened, even though it makes you rather sad.

For some time after Miss King left, things went on pretty smoothly, very smoothly, perhaps I should say. Hoodie did not forget about trying to be good, especially in her bird's presence. It became a sort of conscience to her, and as, by a law which is a great help in learning to be good,—though also a danger the more in learning wrong,—by the law of habit, every time one tries to keep under one's ill temper, makes it easier for the next time, it grew really easier for Hoodie to check her naughty cross words and looks from the way she kept them down when beside her little pet. And Martin and every one began to think it had been a happy thing for Hoodie and those about her that her cousin had taught her how to tame and care for the pretty greenfinch.

It was so pretty, poor little birdie! It grew so tame that, with the window shut of course, it spent a great part of its time flying freely about the ante-room where stood its cage. It would "pouch" not only on Hoodie's finger but on her shoulder, her head—anywhere she chose to place it. And in an instant, at the sound of her call, it would fly to her. Every morning it was her first thought, every night her last. And night and morning when she said her prayers, she never forgot to thank God for being "so kind as to send birdie back again," and to beg Him to keep birdie safe and well.

One evening—how it happened I cannot tell,—it was very hot and sultry weather, with thunder about, and at such times people are careless about closing doors and windows—one evening, by some mischance which no one ever could explain, the window of "birdie's room," as it had come to be called, was either left open, or flew open in some way. Hoodie was sure she had closed it when she went to bid her pet good night, but it was what is called a lattice window, and these are apt to fly open unless very firmly shut. Birdie was safe in his cage however, and the door of that was fortunately—even when you hear what happened, children, you will agree with me that that part of it was fortunate—quite fastened. Early next morning, one of the servants who slept in an attic above the ante-room, heard a noise below. She was a kind-hearted girl, and her first thought was of Miss Hoodie's bird. She got up at once, and hurrying down-stairs—it was not so very early after all, nearly six o'clock—ran to the ante-room. As she opened the door, to her horror a great big strange cat jumped out of the window.

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Lucy, "can he have got at birdie?"

The cage was not to be seen—but in another moment Lucy spied it on the floor, knocked down off the table by the cruel cat. He had not got at birdie—birdie lay in one corner, quite still as if dead, and yet when Lucy with trembling fingers unfastened the cage door and tenderly lifted out his little occupant, she could see no injury, not the slightest scratch.

"His heart's beating still," she said, "perhaps it's only the fright of the fall," and she was turning to the window to examine birdie more closely, when a sound behind her made her start, and turning round she saw in the doorway the bird's little mistress, poor Hoodie herself. She was in her nightgown only—she had run from her room with her little bare feet, having heard Lucy passing down-stairs, with an instinct of fear that some evil had befallen her pet.

"Lucy, Lucy," she cried, "what is the matter? It isn't anything the matter with birdie. Oh, dear Lucy, don't say it is."

Her voice somehow, as Lucy said afterwards, sounded like that of a grown-up person—all the babyishness seemed to have gone out of it—she did not cry, she stood there white as a sheet, clasping her hands in a way that went to Lucy's heart.

"Oh, Miss Hoodie," she replied, the tears running down her face, for she was very tender-hearted, "oh dear, Miss Hoodie, don't take on so. I hope birdie's not badly hurt. The cat didn't touch him. It knocked over the cage, and it must have been the fall; but perhaps he's more frightened than hurt."

"Give him to me, Lucy," said Hoodie. "Let me hold him in my own hands. Oh, birdie dear, oh, birdie darling, don't you know me?" for birdie lay still and limp—almost as if dead already. Hoodie, forcing back the tears, whistled her usual call to him, and as its sound reached his ears, birdie seemed to quiver, raised his head, feebly flapped his wings, and tried, with a piteous attempt at shaking off the sleep from which he would never again awake, tried to rouse himself and to struggle to his feet.

"Oh, Lucy," cried Hoodie, "he's getting better," but as she said the words, birdie fell over on his side, uttered the feeblest of chirps, and with a little quiver lay still—quite still—he was dead. The fright had killed him.

Hoodie looked up in Lucy's face with tearless eyes.

"Is he dead?" she said.

"Yes, Miss Hoodie dear," said Lucy, softly stroking the ruffled feathers, "he is dead, but oh dear, Miss Hoodie, it isn't so bad as if the cat had torn and scratched him all over. You should think of that."

But Hoodie could think of nothing in the shape of comfort. She held the little dead bird out to Lucy.

"Take him and bury him," she said. "He can't love me any more, so take him away. All the loving's dead. He was the only thing that loved me. I won't try to be good any more. God is very unkind."

"Miss Hoodie!" exclaimed Lucy, considerably shocked. But Hoodie just looked at her with a hard set expression in her white face.

"You don't understand," she said. "Take him away and bury him."

She turned to the door and left the room. She went slowly back to her own room, and got into her little bed again. Then, like the old Hebrew king, poor little English Hoodie "turned her face to the wall," and wept and wept as if never again there could be for her brightness in the sunshine, or love and happiness in life.

"My bird, my bird," she moaned. That was all she could say.

She refused at first to get up and be dressed. Then, with an idea perhaps that if she did so she would be more independent than if staying in bed, with papa and mamma and Martin and everybody coming to talk to her, and try to comfort her, she slowly got out of bed and let Martin dress her. But when it came to saying her prayers, she altogether refused to do so, and on this point there was no getting her to give in. She did not refuse to eat her breakfast, because she had sense enough to know that sooner or later she would be obliged to eat, but the moment it was swallowed, she took her little chair and seated herself in the corner of the nursery, her face to the wall, crying, crying steadily, and hopelessly, turning like a little fury upon any one who ventured to speak to her, only moaning out from time to time—

"My bird, oh my bird!"

They were all very sorry for her. Maudie's tears and those of the little boys had flowed freely when the sad story was first told to them; they had all rushed to Hoodie to try to kiss and comfort her. But her extreme crossness, or what any way looked like it to them, sent them away puzzled and hurt. Hoodie's mother had proposed that the little girl should spend the whole day down-stairs with her, have dinner at the dining-room luncheon, and go a drive in the afternoon, but to all this Hoodie only replied by a determined shake of the head, as well as to her father's offer of a new bird, or two if she liked, the prettiest that could be bought.

So they were all really at their wits' end.

It was very sad, but one must also allow that it was very tiresome. Martin began to fear that the child would really make herself ill, and as was Martin's "way," her anxiety began to make her rather cross.

"I wish Miss King had never put it into the child's head to have a pet bird," she muttered to herself as she was washing up the tea-things that evening, glancing at Hoodie's disconsolate figure still in the corner of the nursery. "Miss King may be all very well and kind, but she's no knowledge of children, how should she have any? I think it's much best to leave children to them that understands them; though indeed as for any one's understanding Miss Hoodie——!"

Fortunately it did not occur to Hoodie to make any objection to going to bed, and it was a relief to every one to know of her being there and safely asleep, "forgetting her troubles for a while," as Martin said. The next day was very little better. Hoodie did not cry quite so much, but she still sat in a corner doing nothing, and when any one attempted to speak to her, however kindly, she turned upon them with fierceness, like a little ill-tempered cat.

Yet it was not ill-temper; it was really misery, or at least it was ill-temper caused by misery. But as no gentleness and patience, no sympathy or attempt at comforting her did any good, but harm—and as any approach to reasoning with her, or scolding her, seemed to harden her already embittered little heart more and more, what was to be done, what could be done, but leave her alone? She continued determinedly to refuse, night and morning, to say her prayers, and refused, too, to say grace at the nursery table when it was her turn. But of all this Mrs. Caryll wisely desired Martin to take no notice, and not to try to force the child to any formal utterance of words in which her heart had no part.

"It must be all right again soon if only we are patient with her," said Hoodie's mother, more cheerfully than she was really feeling, for she saw that Martin was very much worried and distressed about Hoodie, and she was anxious to encourage her.

"It is to be hoped so, ma'am, I'm sure," was Martin's rather hopeless reply.

Somewhat to everybody's surprise, on the third day Hoodie condescended to ask a favour. Might she go out for a walk alone with Lucy? Everybody was so enchanted at her seeming to take interest in anything or wishing for anything, that with some conditions her request was at once granted. It was arranged that she should set off with Lucy and go wherever she wished, with the understanding that she would meet Martin and the other children at four o'clock at a certain point on the road, as it was not convenient that Lucy should stay out longer. To this Hoodie agreed.

"I'm going through the wood," she said. "I want to get some flowers that grow there, and Lucy must take a basket and a knife to dig them up, and then I'll tell her what to do."

"Very well, Miss Hoodie," said Martin, but privately she told Lucy not to let the little girl go to the cottages at the edge of the wood, for Martin had never forgotten the fright of Hoodie's escapade several months ago. "If she gets in the way of going to that young woman's cottage, she'll be for ever running off," she said. "So silly of the people to encourage her, when they might see we didn't like it. We met the young woman the other day, and she actually stopped short in the road and began asking when Miss Hoodie was coming to see her again."

"But mamma says they're very respectable people, Martin," said Maudie, who was standing by. "I don't think she would mind if Hoodie did go to see them. Papa said one day he wished the young woman's husband was one of our men. He's so steady."

"Hold your tongue, Miss Maudie," said Martin with unusual sharpness. She knew that what the child said was true, but she had taken a prejudice against the little family in Red Riding Hood's cottage, as the children always called it, and when a good conscientious woman of Martin's age and character once takes a prejudice, it is rather a hopeless matter!

Poor Maudie slid away, feeling in her turn that things were rather hard upon her. She had been very patient and gentle with her strange-tempered little sister these three days, and had tried not to feel hurt at Hoodie's indifference to all her small overtures of sympathy. And now to be told by Martin to hold her tongue when all she meant was to try to make things better, was not easy to bear.

"I'm sure Hoodie wants to get flowers to put on birdie's grave," she thought to herself, as she wiped away the tears called forth by Martin's sharp words. "I think she might have told me about it and asked me to go too."

But she said nothing about it, and set off uncomplainingly on her solitary walk with Martin, for the two little boys were spending the afternoon with the children at the Rectory.

Hoodie marched Lucy straight off to the wood. Primroses were the flowers on which her heart was set, for birdie's grave, as Maudie had guessed. She had seen them growing in the wood in the spring in great numbers and beauty, and no flower, she had settled in her mind, could look so pretty on birdie's grave. She said very little to Lucy, having satisfied herself that the knife to dig the roots up with and the basket to carry them home in had not been forgotten, she walked along in silence. But when they reached the wood and had gone some little way into it and no primroses were to be seen Hoodie looked very much disappointed.

"There were such lots," she said to herself.

"Lots of what, Miss Hoodie?" asked Lucy, thinking her charge the oddest child she had ever had to do with.

"Of p'imroses," said Hoodie. "That's what I came for, to plant them on birdie's grave, you know, Lucy."

"Primroses," repeated Lucy. "Of course not now, Miss Hoodie. They're over long ago. See, these are their leaves—lots of them."

She stooped as she spoke, and pointed out the primrose plants clustering thickly at their feet. Hoodie stooped too, to look at them.

"Oh dear," she exclaimed. "Are the flowers all gone? What shall I do? If we unplanted one, Lucy, and took it home, and watered it lots, twenty times a day p'raps, wouldn't more flowers come?"



"Not this year, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy. "Not all the watering in the world would make any flowers come before the spring, and watering too much would kill the plant altogether."

"Oh dear," repeated Hoodie, "what shall I do?"

"Won't no other flowers do?" said Lucy. "There's violets still, and lots of others in the garden that Hopkins would give you—much prettier than primroses."

"No," said Hoodie, shaking her head, "none but p'imroses would do. Birdie liked them best, I know, for when I put some once in the wires of his cage, he chirped. When will the spring come, Lucy?"

"Not for a good bit, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, "it's only July now. There's all the summer to go through, and then autumn when it begins to get cold, and then all the cold winter, before the spring comes. A good while—eight months, and there's more than four weeks in each month, you know."

"I can't help it," said Hoodie, "only p'imroses will do. Please dig some roots up, Lucy, and we'll plant them on birdie's grave. The green leaves are a little pretty, and in the spring the flowers will come. And if I'm dead before the spring," she added solemnly, "you mustn't forget to water them all the same."

"Miss Hoodie!" said Lucy, reproachfully, "you should not talk that way really. Your mamma wouldn't like it."

"Why not?" said Hoodie, "there's lots about deadening in the Bible and in the church books, so it can't be naughty. I wouldn't mind, if only I thought birdie was in heaven."

"We'd better be going on," said Lucy, rather anxious to give a turn to the conversation, "or we'll be late for Martin and Miss Maudie. I've got up two nice roots, and we may see some others that take your fancy as we go on."

They made their way slowly through the wood—Hoodie peering about here and there in search of primroses still, some two or three might, she thought, possibly have been left behind, or some buds might by mistake have bloomed later than their neighbours. For Hoodie, as you have seen, was not easily convinced of anything that she did not wish to believe.

But all her peering was in vain; they reached the end of the little wood without a single primrose showing its pretty face, and Hoodie was obliged to content herself with the brightest and freshest plants they could find, which Lucy good-naturedly dug up for her.

At the edge of the wood, the path led them in front of the cottage to which three or four months ago Hoodie's memorable visit had been paid. Lucy walked on quickly, talking of other things in hope of distracting the little girl's attention till the forbidden ground was safely passed. Vain hope. Hoodie came to a dead stand in front of the little garden gate.

"That is the cottage where baby and its mother and the ugly man live," she announced to Lucy. "Once, a long time ago, I went there to tea. Baby's mother asked me to come again some day."

"But not to-day, Miss Hoodie," said poor Lucy, nervously "we'd be too late if we stopped now."

"No, not to-day," said Hoodie. "I don't want to go to-day. I'm too unhappy about birdie to care for cakes now. I don't think I'll ever care for cakes any more. Besides," with a slight hesitation, "she won't have any ready. She said I was to let her know. P'raps I'll let her know some day."

She was turning to walk on, immensely to Lucy's relief, when the gleam of some pale yellow flowers growing close under the cottage walls, up at the other end of the long narrow strip of garden, caught her glance.

"Lucy," she cried. "I see some p'imroses in the garden. I must run in and ask baby's mother to give me some. I'm sure she will."

She unfastened the wooden gate and was some steps up the path before Lucy had time to reply.

"They're not primroses, Miss Hoodie," she said. "Indeed they're not. I can see from here. They're quite another kind. Oh, do come back, Miss Hoodie."

"I won't be a minute," said Hoodie, "I'd like some of the flowers any way," and she began to run on again.

"Miss Hoodie," cried Lucy, driven to despair, "Martin said you mustn't on no account go into the cottage."

Hoodie's wrath and self-will were instantly aroused.

"Well then, Martin had no business to say so," she replied. "Mamma never said I wasn't to go. She said I should go some day to see the baby again and to thank baby's mother."

"But not by yourself—without Martin, Miss Hoodie. Your mamma always tells you to be obedient to Martin, I know."

Hoodie vouchsafed no answer, but marched on, up the little garden path towards the house. Lucy looked after her in dismay. What should she do? Following her and repeating Martin's orders would probably only make Hoodie still more determined. Besides, Lucy was a very gentle, civil girl; it was very disagreeable to her to think of going into the cottage, and telling the owners of it that the child had been forbidden to speak to them, and she gazed round her in perplexity, heartily wishing that Miss Hoodie had not chosen her for her companion in her walk. Suddenly, some distance off, coming across the fields, she perceived two figures, a tall one and a little one. Lucy had good eyes.

"Martin and Miss Maudie," she exclaimed, with relief, and just glancing back to see that Hoodie was by this time inside the cottage, she ran as fast as she could to meet the new comers and tell of Hoodie's disobedience.

She was all out of breath by the time she got up to them, though they hastened their steps when they saw her coming—and at first Martin could not understand what Lucy was saying. When she did so, she was exceedingly put out.

"Run into the cottage, has she, Lucy?" she exclaimed. "And after all I said! I really do think you might have managed her better, naughty though she is. Oh dear me, I do wish she hadn't been allowed to come out without me."

Maudie stood by in great trouble at Hoodie's misdoing.

"Martin will be so cross to her," she thought, "and Hoodie will speak naughtily, I'm sure. I'll run on to the cottage first and tell her how vexed Martin is, and beg her to come back quick and say she's sorry."

And before Martin and Lucy noticed what she was doing, she was half way across the fields to the cottage.

The door stood open when she got there. Maudie peeped into the kitchen but saw no one. "Hoodie," she called out softly, "are you there?"

No answer.

"Hoodie," called Maudie again, more loudly, "I've come to fetch you. Martin's just coming."

Then Hoodie's voice sounded from above.

"I'm up here, Maudie. I came up here 'cos there was no one in the kitchen. And baby's mother doesn't want me to stay 'cos poor baby's ill, so I'll come."

Maudie could not, however, clearly distinguish what Hoodie said, so, guided by the sound of Hoodie's voice, she in turn mounted the ladder-like staircase which led to the sleeping-room above. Hoodie was just preparing to come down, but when Maudie made her appearance she drew back a little into the room.

"Baby's mother won't let me nurse baby," she said, "'cos she's ill, though I'm sure I wouldn't hurt her. Do look at her, Maudie. You can't think how pretty she is when she's well—but her face is very red to-day—baby's mother thinks she's getting her teeth."

Maudie approached rather timidly. Certainly the baby's face was very red.

"Please, miss," said its mother, "I think you'd better not stay. It's very kind of you, and I'm that sorry I can't tell you, to ask you to go."

"I've only just come up-stairs," said Hoodie. "I waited ever so long in the kitchen, 'cos I thought baby's mother was out, and that she'd come in soon. And then I called out and I heard she was up-stairs, so I came up, but she won't let me touch baby and I can nurse her so nicely."

"It isn't for that, miss," said Mrs. Lizzie in distress; "it's only for fear there should be anything catchin' about her. Doctor saw her yesterday and thought it was only her teeth, still it's best to be careful."

"Yes, thank you," said Maudie, "I think we'd better go. Perhaps we'll come again when baby's better. Come, Hoodie."

With some difficulty she got Hoodie away, for though considerably offended with baby's mother, Hoodie was much more inclined to stay and argue it out with her, than to give in quietly. At the foot of the stair they met Martin; Maudie explained things to her, and Martin's face grew very grave. She was too really alarmed to be cross.

"Run out at once," she said, "both of you, into the open air, and stay in the field till I come; I have sent Lucy home. Better know the worst at once," she added to herself, as she climbed the steep little stair, "oh dear, oh dear! who ever would have thought of such a thing?"



CHAPTER XII.

HOODIE AWAKES.

"And till we're nice old ladies We'll love each other so."

When Martin joined the two little girls again, her face looked not only grave, but white. Maudie felt frightened, she hardly knew why. Hoodie, in a state of defiance to meet the expected scolding, was so amazed at its not coming that the surprise kept her quiet. So they all three walked home in silence, though as fast as possible. No lingering by the way to gather flowers, or to watch the ducks in Farmer Girton's pond! Martin held a hand of each little girl, and merely saying now and then, "We must go straight home, my dears," marched steadily on. It was a strange, unnatural kind of walk—the children felt something mysterious about it, without knowing what, and poor Martin's heart was terribly sore. She could not scold Hoodie, naughty as she had undoubtedly been, for sad fears were picturing themselves before her—what might not be the result of Hoodie's disobedience?

"Supposing," thought poor Martin, who was of a very anxious, as well as affectionate disposition, "supposing this is the last walk we ever have together? oh dear, oh dear—scarlet fever is an awful thing once it gets into a family, and the kind that is about is a bad kind, they say."

She did not lose her presence of mind, however. As soon as ever they reached the house, she sent the two children straight up to Maudie's room, a plainly furnished little room opening out of the day-nursery, and told them to wait there till she came to them. Then she went at once to see their mother, and some time passed before she came up to them.

"What's the matter, Martin?" said Maudie, timidly. "Why do you look so sad?"

She did not notice that her mother had followed Martin into the room.

"Martin is rather troubled about something," said her mother, "and you must both try to be very good. And I want to tell you that dear little Hec and Duke are not coming home this evening. They are going to stay a few days at the Rectory."

Maudie gazed up into her mother's face. She saw there were tears in her eyes.

"Mamma!" she exclaimed. Then in a low voice she whispered, "I understand, mamma. I'll try to be good, and I'll pray to God for us not to get the catching illness."

Mrs. Caryll stooped and kissed her.

"I knew you would be good, dear, and try to make Hoodie so too. Poor Hoodie—she does not know what her disobedience may have caused."

The next few days passed slowly and strangely. It was strange and dull to be without the boys, and to Hoodie it was particularly strange that no one scolded her for what she knew she had deserved scolding. They went out for a walk twice a day, by the doctor's orders, who came to see them the morning after the unfortunate visit to the cottage. Every one was very kind, but every one looked grave, and very soon Hoodie began to find it very dull to have no lessons to do, no Hec and Duke to play and quarrel with, and to have to spend all their time in the two rooms, except of course when they were out with Martin, who never left them for a minute. It was very dull, but worse was to follow. On the morning of the sixth day, Maudie woke with a headache, and a bad pain in her throat, and bravely as she tried to bear it, it was plain to be seen that the poor little girl was suffering very much. Martin would not let her get up, and an hour or two after breakfast, Hoodie, sitting alone and very disconsolate in the day-nursery, heard Dr. Reynolds and her mother coming up-stairs. She jumped up and ran to meet them.

"Mamma," she said, "Martin won't let me play with Maudie, and I've nothing to do. Martin is very cross."

Mrs. Caryll looked gravely at Hoodie.

"Hoodie," she said, "you must be obedient."

"And Miss Maudie doesn't want her, ma'am," said Martin, appearing at the door of Maudie's room. "She can't bear the least noise; and any way it's better for Miss Hoodie not to be near her, isn't it, sir?" she asked, turning to the doctor.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"As to infection," he said, "separating them now is a chance the more, that's all one can say. But one must do one's best. And in any case the child is better out of a fevered atmosphere. I would prepare another room for her, I think," he added to Mrs. Caryll, and then they both went into Maudie's room, and Hoodie heard no more.

Hoodie sat by herself, drumming her little fat legs on the side of the table.

"I wonder what they mean," she said to herself. "I wonder what the doctor means about affection. That's loving—at least people always put it at the end of their letters whether they're loving or not. I think people tells lots of stories when they'se big—lotser than when they'se little. And it's all that horrid Martin that's stoppened my going into Maudie's room—I don't believe Maudie said she didn't want me."

Just then Martin put her head out at the doorway of the inner room.

"Miss Hoodie," she said, "please ring the bell—there's no bell in here—and when Jane comes up, tell her to send Lucy to speak to me at the other door—the door that opens to the passage."

Hoodie executed the commission with great alacrity—even having a message to give was better than having nothing at all to do, and ringing the bell had always been greatly after Hoodie's own heart.

Somewhat to her surprise, a few minutes after Jane had gone down again in search of Lucy, Lucy herself came into the nursery.

"You were to go to the other door. What a time you've been of coming up," said Hoodie, politely.

"I've been to the other door, Miss Hoodie, and Martin has told me what she wants me to do," replied Lucy. "Poor Martin, I'm right down sorry for her, and poor little Miss Maudie," said Lucy. "Now, Miss Hoodie, I'm going to take you out into the garden a little, and when we come in I'm going to stay with you in the sewing-room."

Lucy's manner had become more decided, and somehow Hoodie did not make any objection. She let Lucy put on her hat and take her into the garden, quietly enough.

"Is Maudie very ill, Lucy?" she asked.

"I hope not," said Lucy, "but it's too soon to say much yet."

"Why are you sorry for Martin?" was Hoodie's next inquiry.

"Oh, because it's such a upset, and her that's that fond of you all," said Lucy. "I'm sure if there's anything I can do, I'll be only too glad. I'm very glad I've had the fever."

"Why are you glad? When did you have it, and was it the affection fever like what Maudie's got?" asked Hoodie.

Lucy did not laugh. She was rather a matter-of-fact girl.

"I had it when I was six, and people don't often, almost never, have it twice," she replied. "That's how I'm to take care of you, Miss Hoodie, otherwise they'd have been afraid of my catching it. Your mamma's a very kind lady that way, and it's dreadfully catching—just see how poor Miss Maudie's got it with that one minute in that cottage the other day."

Hoodie stared at her.

"Did Maudie catch it that day she ran to tell me to come away from the baby's mother's cottage?" she said.

Lucy stared at her in turn.

"Of course," she said. "Didn't you know that, Miss Hoodie? It can't be helped now, you see, and we must hope Miss Maudie will get better. But it'll be a lesson to you to be obedient another time. Let's go and gather some flowers, Miss Hoodie, and make a little nosegay for you to send in to Miss Maudie."

But Hoodie shook her head, and she had a look in her face which made Lucy wish she had not told her what she had, though never doubting but that the child already knew it.

"Maudie wouldn't care for any flowers from me. Nobody will ever love me at all now," she said. "It was me that made Maudie ill. Oh, I do wish God had made me ill instead of Maudie, for everybody loves her, and nobody loves me."

"Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, really startled. "You mustn't talk so. Everybody would love you just as they do Miss Maudie if you'd try to be a good and obedient little girl."

Hoodie shook her head again.

"You don't know, Lucy," she said. "I have tried and it isn't any good, so I've left off."

Lucy trembled a little as to what this announcement might be followed up by, in the way of special naughtiness. But her fears were misplaced. Hoodie was perfectly good and gentle all day—almost too much so indeed; Lucy would have liked to see a touch of her old self-will and petulance, for she could not help fearing she was to blame for the strange depression of Hoodie's spirits. She was very kind and good to the little girl, and did her utmost to amuse her, but it was a strange, sad time. The house, lately so cheerful with children's voices and the patter of their restless little feet up and down the passages, was now silent and gloomy, and the servants spoke with hushed voices and went about with anxious looks. Hoodie was not allowed to go near Maudie's room—she only saw her mother and Martin now and then at the end of the passage, or out of the window, for they were both engrossed in nursing Maudie. Every morning Hoodie sent Lucy as soon as she awoke to ask for news of Maudie, and though she said very little, there was a look in her eyes when Lucy brought back the answer—"Not much better yet, Miss Hoodie,"—that went to Lucy's heart.

"I'll never say Miss Hoodie has no feelings again," she said to herself, "never."

After a few days there came a morning when Lucy, who was not very clever at hiding her feelings, came back to Hoodie looking graver than usual, and with something very like tears in her eyes.

"Isn't Maudie better yet, Lucy?" asked Hoodie with a sad sort of impatience.

"She couldn't be better yet, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy, "an illness like that always takes its time."

"But is she worser then?" said Hoodie, staring up in Lucy's face.

"I'm afraid she is, rather. Her throat's so sore," said Lucy, turning away.

Hoodie said nothing, but sat down quietly on her little chair, leaning her head on her hands. A few minutes after, Lucy went down to the kitchen with Hoodie's breakfast things—she happened not to shut the door firmly, as the tray was in her hands, and when she came up-stairs again, she was surprised to hear some one talking in the room.

"Who can it be?" she said to herself, for Mrs. Caryll had given strict orders that in case of any infection about Hoodie herself, none of the other servants were to be with her. Lucy stopped a minute to listen. The voice was Hoodie's own. She was kneeling in a corner of the room, and the words Lucy overheard were these—

"Maudie is worser," Hoodie was saying, "Maudie is worser, and if she keeps getting worser she'll die. And it wasn't Maudie's fault that she got the affection fever. It was Hoodie's fault. Oh, please, dear God, make Maudie better, and Hoodie won't mind if she gets the fever, 'cos it was her fault. Hoodie's been so naughty, and poor Maudie's good. And everybody loves Maudie, but nobody can love Hoodie. So please, dear God, make Maudie better," and then she ended in her usual fashion—"For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

Lucy stood holding her breath at the door. When she saw that Hoodie got up from kneeling and sat quietly down on her chair again, she ventured to enter the room. Hoodie looked at her rather suspiciously.

"Lucy," she said, with a touch of her old imperiousness, "I think you should 'amember to knock at the door."

"Very well, Miss Hoodie," said Lucy meekly, for somehow she could not have helped agreeing with whatever Hoodie chose to say, "I'll not forget again."