“They move as though they were very tired,” whispered Elsie Mortimer.

“I think,” said Ainsley, “they have lost their way.”

But even as he spoke, the birds, as though they had reached their goal, spread their wings to the full length and sank to the shallow water at the farthest margin of the lake.

As they fell the sun struck full upon them, turning their great pinions into flashing white and silver.

“Oh!” cried the girl, “but they are beautiful!”

Between the house and the lake there was a ridge of rock higher than the head of a man, and to this Ainsley and his guests ran for cover.  On hands and knees, like hunters stalking game, they scrambled up the face of the rock and peered cautiously into the pond.  Below them, less than one hundred yards away, on a tiny promontory, the six white birds stood motionless.  They showed no sign of fear.  They could not but know that beyond the lonely circle of the pond were the haunts of men.  From the farm came the tinkle of a cow-bell, the bark of a dog, and in the valley, six miles distant, rose faintly upon the stillness of the sunset hour the rumble of a passing train.  But if these sounds carried, the birds gave no heed.  In each drooping head and dragging wing, in the forward stoop of each white body, weighing heavily on the slim, black legs, was written utter weariness, abject fatigue.  To each even to lower his bill and sip from the cool waters was a supreme effort.  And in their exhaustion so complete was something humanly helpless and pathetic.

[Illustration:  “I think,” said Ainsley, “they have lost their way”]

To Ainsley the mysterious visitors made a direct appeal.  He felt as though they had thrown themselves upon his hospitality.  That they showed such confidence that the sanctuary would be kept sacred touched him.  And while his friends spoke eagerly, he remained silent, watching the drooping, ghost-like figures, his eyes filled with pity.

“I have seen birds like those in Florida,” Mortimer was whispering, “but they were not migratory birds.”

“And I’ve seen white cranes in the Adirondacks,” said Lowell, “but never six at one time.”

“They’re like no bird I ever saw out of a zoo,” declared Elsie Mortimer.  “Maybe they are from the Zoo?  Maybe they escaped from the Bronx?”

“The Bronx is too near,” objected Lowell.  “These birds have come a great distance.  They move as though they had been flying for many days.”

As though the absurdity of his own thought amused him, Mortimer laughed softly.

“I’ll tell you what they do look like,” he said.  “They look like that bird you see on the Nile, the sacred Ibis, they—­”

Something between a gasp and a cry startled him into silence.  He found his host staring wildly, his lips parted, his eyes open wide.

“Where?” demanded Ainsley.  “Where did you say?” His voice was so hoarse, so strange, that they all turned and looked.