“No,” said Hinpoha firmly, “I want him myself.  I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  I’ll put the cage up in the attic and she’ll never know I have him.  I can slip up and feed him.  It would be better for him up there, anyway.  It’s too warm for him downstairs.  He’s used to a cold climate.”  So “Snowy,” as they had christened him, was established by a window under the eaves on the third floor, where he could look out at the trees for which he would be pining.  Aunt Phoebe always took a nap after lunch, and this gave Hinpoha a chance to run up and look at her patient.  She fed him on chicken feed and mice when there were any.  Never did he show the slightest sign of friendliness or recognition when she hovered over him; but continued to stare sorrowfully at her with an unblinking eye.  If he liked his new lodging under the cozy eaves he made no mention of it, and if he pined for his winter palace in the Canadian forest he was equally uncommunicative.  Hinpoha longed to poke him in order to make him give some expression of feeling.  But at all events, he did not struggle against his captivity, and Hinpoha reflected judicially that after all it was a good thing that he had such a stolid personality, for a calm frame of mind aids the recovery of the patient and he would not be likely to keep his wing from healing by dashing it against the side of the cage.  It seemed almost as though he knew his presence in the house was a secret, and was in league with Hinpoha not to betray himself.  So Aunt Phoebe lived downstairs in blissful ignorance of the feathered boarder in the attic.

She was suffering from a cold that week and was more than usually exacting.  She finally took to her bed in an air-tight room with a mustard plaster and an electric heating pad, expressing her intention of staying there until her cold was cured.  “But you ought to have some fresh air,” protested Hinpoha, “you’ll smother in there with all that heat.”

“You leave that window shut,” said Aunt Phoebe crossly.  “All this foolishness about open windows makes me tired.  It’s a pity if a young girl has to tell her elders what’s best for them.  Now bring the History of the Presbyterian Church, and read that seventh chapter over again; my mind was preoccupied last night and I did not hear it distinctly.”  This was Aunt Phoebe’s excuse for having fallen asleep during the reading.  So poor Hinpoha had to sit in that stifling room and read until she thought she would faint.  Aunt Phoebe fell asleep presently, however, to her great relief, and she stole out softly, leaving the door open behind her so that some air could get in from the hall.