“I hope he is jealous of me,” trying to speak lightly.

“He’s a great tyrant.  He has driven away all the other birds.  He will not allow them to have one of the crumbs that I put out.  Most of them are sitting in a forlorn little row on the nearest tree.  I wonder what he is saying to them in that rough voice, yet maybe it is better not to know.  It must be something very rude, the redbird’s bearing makes me think so.  He is standing very straight and holding his head very high, but he isn’t saying a word—­of course.  He is too much of a gentleman to quarrel with a rowdy like the blue jay.  Just hear how he is domineering!  These little song sparrows must surely be ladybirds—­they are talking back in such a saucy twitter.  Can you hear them?  I wish you could see them.  They are turning their pretty heads from side to side as much as to say, that he can’t keep them from speaking their minds if he does keep them from getting the crumbs.  Can you hear the silvery ripple of their plaints?  Nothing could be sweeter.  There!  I will raise the window just a hair’s breadth.  Listen!  Isn’t it like a chime of fairy bells, heard in a dream?  But I hope you haven’t felt any draught.  It is much colder than yesterday.”

Dropping the sash she went to the fireplace and laid several sticks on the blaze.  She stood still for a moment, gazing down at the fire and then she took a low chair beside the hearth.  She knew that Paul Colbert was looking at her, but she did not turn her head to meet his gaze.  For she also knew that he was merely biding his time, merely gathering strength to speak, merely waiting till he had found words strong and tender enough.  If her eyes were to meet his, she must go to him—­she could not resist—­and yet she felt that she must not go while her plighted word was given to another man.  It did not matter that the promise had been made under persuasion and in ignorance of what love meant.  It made no difference that she was sure that William, too, longed to be free.  The promise had been made, and she was bound by it, until she could tell William Pressley the truth and ask him to set her free.  Soft and feminine as her nature was, she had nevertheless a singularly clear, firm sense of honor as most men understand that term—­and as few women do.  She had already tried more than once to tell him, but he had been almost constantly away from home of late.  It was to her mind simply a question of honor.  The dread of giving him pain which she had shrunk from at first, had now wholly passed away.  It was so plain that he also recognized the mistake of this engagement and would be glad to be free, that the last weight was lifted from her heart.  She had been truly attached to him as she was to almost every one with whom she came in daily contact, and this affection was not altered.  Hers was such a loving nature that it was as natural for her to love those about her as for a young vine to cling to everything that it touches.  Every