Her smiles vanished like watery sunbeams.  David trembled for fear she might begin crying again.  But she looked fondly up in his face, and beamed brightly when she saw how frightened he was.

“But you know I do love you, David, dear.  You know that you are all I have, of my very own,” she said.  “I am unreasonable—­I know that well enough; but I couldn’t help being hurt at your injustice to William.  Could I, dear?”

“Oh, no!  No indeed!” responded the boy, with vague eagerness.

“Well, then, I will forgive you if you promise never to do it again.  And do you know any more about birds than you do about love, you poor dear?  Look at that one flying over the river.  Why do they always cross the stream in a slanting direction?  Why do they never fly straight across?  And why do birds sing so seldom in the depths of the forest?  And is it true that none of the singing birds were here till the settlers came?  It is said that they came with the settlers.  I’ve heard many persons state that as a fact.  But how does anybody know?  Did any bird say so?  Those paroquets could tell if they would; but they never will.  They only chatter to scold one another.  Just listen!  I am sure they could tell lots of things if they liked.  They are not so green as they look—­not half so green as you, my dear.  I shall have to ask Mr. Audubon if there were any birds here before the settlers came.  He will know; he doesn’t go round all the time with his head in the clouds, as you do.  You don’t even know how old a snow-goose has to be before it turns from gray to white.  And you really ought to know that, because you are a goose yourself.  I saw a pure white snow-goose the other day on the pond back of Cedar House, and when the snow-goose comes, then winter is here, and it isn’t long till Christmas.”

She suddenly stood up shivering, and said she was cold; but it was the thought of Christmas Eve, not the frost in the air, that sent the chill to her heart.

XVII

THE ONCOMING OF THE STORM

On entering the great room of Cedar House they found the rest of the family in a most unusual state of excitement.  The lamps and candles had not been lighted, as it was not yet quite dark, but the firelight was bright, and they could plainly see the anxiety on every face.

Miss Penelope was in her accustomed place, which she could no more get away from than a planet could leave its orbit.  But her attention was wandering, as it rarely did, and she was silently casting uneasy glances at the judge and his nephew who sat on the other side of the room, talking to each other in a loud, excited tone.  The widow Broadnax, also, was in her usual seat in the chimney-corner, yet looking now and then at the two men; and the mere fact that she thus allowed her gaze to stray for a moment from what her half-sister was doing, indicated the uncommon disturbance of her mind.