“I know all about it,” replied Sylvia, resenting this slight upon her erudition.  “Georgiana has my father’s copy, and his was presented to him by Mr. Audubon.”

“Audubon?” I said, with a doubt.

“Never heard of Audubon?” cried Sylvia, delighted to show up my ignorance.

“Only of the great Audubon, Miss Sylvia; the great, the very great Audubon.”

“Well, this was the great, the very great Audubon.  He lived in Henderson, and kept a corn-mill.  He and my father were friends, and he gave my father some of his early drawings of Kentucky birds.  Georgiana has them now, and that is where she gets her love of birds—­from my father, who got his from the great, the very great Audubon.”

“Would Miss Cobb let me see these drawings?” I asked, eagerly.

“She might; but she prizes them as much as if they were stray leaves out of the only Bible in the world.”

As Sylvia turned inside out this pocket of her mind, there had dropped out a key to her sister’s conduct.  Now I understood her slighting attitude towards my knowledge of birds.  But I shall feel some interest in Miss Cobb from this time on.  I never dreamed that she could bring me fresh news of that rare spirit whom I have so wished to see, and for one week in the woods with whom I would give any year of my life.  Are they possibly the Henderson family to whom Audubon intrusted the box of his original drawings during his absence in Philadelphia, and who let a pair of Norway rats rear a family in it, and cut to pieces nearly a thousand inhabitants of the air?

There are two more days of June.  Since the talk with Sylvia I have called twice more upon the elder Miss Cobb.  Upon reflection, it is misleading to refer to this young lady in terms so dry, stiff, and denuded; and I shall drop into Sylvia’s form, and call her simply Georgiana.  That looks better—­Georgiana!  It sounds well, too—­Georgiana!

Georgiana, then, is a rather elusive character.  The more I see of her the less I understand her.  If your nature draws near hers, it retreats.  If you pursue, it flies—­a little frightened perhaps.  If then you keep still and look perfectly safe, she will return, but remain at a fixed distance, like a bird that will stay in your yard, but not enter your house.  It is hardly shyness, for she is not shy, but more like some strain of wild nature in her that refuses to be domesticated.  One’s faith is strained to accept Sylvia’s estimate that Georgiana is deep—­she is so light, so airy, so playful.  Sylvia is a demure little dove that has pulled over itself an owl’s skin, and is much prouder of its wicked old feathers than of its innocent heart; but Georgiana—­what is she?  Secretly an owl with the buoyancy of a humming-bird?  However, it’s nothing to me.  She hovers around her mother and Sylvia with a fondness that is rather beautiful.  I did not mention the subject of Audubon and her father, for it is never well to let an elder sister know that a younger one has been talking about her.  I merely gave her several chances to speak of birds, but she ignored them.  As for me and my love of birds, such trifles are beneath her notice.  I don’t like her, and it will not be worth while to call again soon, though it would be pleasant to see those drawings.