“I think your cloud is the shadow of an eagle carrying a lamb to its little ones.”

“And I think,” she answered confidently, “that it is the shadow of an angel carrying a baby home.”

Again he was silenced; the idea was infinitely more poetical than his own.

“This,” he reflected, “is a child of a curious mental calibre.”

Before he could pursue the thought further, she broke in upon it in quite a different strain.

“Have you seen Jack and Jill?  They are jolly.”

“Who are Jack and Jill?”

“Why, my ravens, of course.  I got them out of the old tree with a hole in it at the end of the lake.”

“The tree at the end of the lake!  Why, the hole where the ravens nest is fifty feet up.  Who got them for you?”

“I got them myself.  Sam—­you know Sam—­was afraid to go up.  He said he should fall, and that the old birds would peck his eyes.  So I went by myself one morning quite early, with a bag tied round my neck, and got up.  It was hard work, and I nearly tumbled once; but I got on the bough beneath the hole at last.  It shook very much; it is so rotten, you have no idea.  There were three little ones in the nest, all with great mouths.  I took two, and left one for the old birds.  When I was nearly down again, the old birds found me out, and flew at me, and beat my head with their wings, and pecked—­oh, they did peck!  Look here,” and she showed him a scar on her hand; “that’s where they pecked.  But I stuck to my bag, and got down at last, and I’m glad I did, for we are great friends now; and I am sure the cross old birds would be quite pleased if they knew how nicely I am educating their young ones, and how their manners have improved.  But I say, Mr. Fraser, don’t tell Pigott; she cannot climb trees, and does not like to see me do it.  She does not know I went after them myself.”

Mr. Fraser laughed.

“I won’t tell her, Angela, my dear; but you must be careful—­you might tumble and kill yourself.”

“I don’t think I shall, Mr. Fraser, unless I am meant to.  God looks after me as much when I am up a tree as when I am upon the ground.”

Once more he had nothing to say; he could not venture to disturb her faith.

“I will walk home with you, my dear.  Tell me.  Angela, would you like to learn?”

“Learn!—­learn what?”

“Books, and the languages that other nations, nations that have passed away, used to talk, and how to calculate numbers and distances.”

“Yes, I should like to learn very much; but who will teach me?  I have learnt all Pigott knows two years ago, and since then I have been trying to learn about the trees and flowers and stars; but I look and watch, and can’t understand.”

“Ah! my dear, contact with Nature is the highest education; but the mind that would appreciate her wonders must have a foundation of knowledge to work upon.  The uneducated man is rarely sensitive to the thousand beauties and marvels of the fields around him, and the skies above him.  But, if you like, I will teach you, Angela.  I am practically an idle man, and it will give me great pleasure; but you must promise to work and do what I tell you.”