“I must guard him in so many ways,” confided Winona.  “He’s happy now—­he’s forgotten for the moment.  But sometimes it comes back on him terribly—­what he is, you know.  I’ve seen him over there lose control—­want to kill himself.  He says he can’t help such times.  It will seem to him that someone has shut him in a dark room and he must break down its walls—­break out into the light.  He would try to break the walls down—­like a caged beast.  It wasn’t pretty.  And I’m his eyes and all his life, and no old bird is ever going to set him thinking I’m not perfectly beautiful.  That’s the plain truth.  I may lie about it myself to him pretty soon.  I might as well.  He only thinks I’m being flirty when I deny it.  Oh, I know I’ve changed!  Sometimes it seems to me now as if I used to be—­well, almost prudish.”

“My dear, he knows better than you do, much better, how beautiful you are.  But you’re right about the bird.  I’ll take him gladly.”  She reflected a moment.  “There’s a fine place for the cage in my room—­on my hope chest.”

“You dear!” said Winona.  “Of course I couldn’t have killed it.”

Downstairs ten minutes later Winona, the light of filial devotion in her eyes, was explaining to her father that she was giving the parrot away because she had noticed that it annoyed him.

The judge beamed gratitude.

“Why, it’s right thoughtful of you, Winona.  It does annoy me, kind of.  That miserable Dave Cowan’s taught it some new rigmarole—­no meaning to it, but bothersome when you want to be quiet.”

Even in the days of her white innocence Winona Penniman had not been above doing a thing for one reason while advancing another less personal.  She had always been a strange girl.

Juliana took leave of Spike.

“You have a lovely wife,” she told him.  “It isn’t going to be too hard for you, this life.”

“Watch us!” said Winona.  “I’ll make his life more beautiful than I am.”  Her hand fluttered to his shoulder.

“Oh, me?  I’ll be all right,” said Spike.

“And thank you for this wonderful bird,” said Juliana.

She lifted the cage from its table and went slowly toward the gate.  The parrot divined that dirty work was afoot, but it had led a peaceful life and its repertoire comprised no call of alarm.

“Pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl!” it shrieked.  Then followed its harshest laugh of scorn.

Juliana did not quicken her pace to the car; she finished the little journey in all dignity, and placed her burden in the tonneau.

“Pretty girl, pretty girl!” screamed the dismayed bird.  The laugh was long and eloquent of derision.

Dave Cowan reached the Penniman gate, pausing a moment to watch the car leave.  Juliana shot him one swift glance while the parrot laughed.

“Who was that live-looking old girl?” he demanded as he came up the steps.  “Oh!” he said when Winona told him.