[He has gone off again into a kind of dream.]

Mercy.  I like being confirmed.

Strangway.  Ah!  Yes.  Now——­What’s that behind you, Mercy?

Mercy. [Engagingly producing a cage a little bigger than a mouse-trap, containing a skylark] My skylark.

Strangway.  What!

Mercy.  It can fly; but we’re goin’ to clip its wings.  Bobbie caught it.

Strangway.  How long ago?

Mercy. [Conscious of impending disaster] Yesterday.

Strangway. [White hot] Give me the cage!

Mercy. [Puckering] I want my skylark. [As he steps up to her and takes the cage—­thoroughly alarmed] I gave Bobbie thrippence for it!

Strangway. [Producing a sixpence] There!

Mercy. [Throwing it down-passionately] I want my skylark!

Strangway.  God made this poor bird for the sky and the grass.  And you put it in that!  Never cage any wild thing!  Never!

Mercy. [Faint and sullen] I want my skylark.

Strangway. [Taking the cage to the door] No! [He holds up the cage and opens it] Off you go, poor thing!

     [The bird flies out and away.  The girls watch with round eyes
     the fling up of his arm, and the freed bird flying away.]

Ivy.  I’m glad!

[Mercy kicks her viciously and sobs.  Strangway comes from the door, looks at mercy sobbing, and suddenly clasps his head.  The girls watch him with a queer mixture of wonder, alarm, and disapproval.]

Gladys. [Whispering] Don’t cry, Mercy.  Bobbie’ll soon catch yu another.

     [Strangway has dropped his hands, and is looking again at mercy. 
     Ivy sits with hands clasped, gazing at Strangway.  Mercy
     continues her artificial sobbing.]

Strangway. [Quietly] The class is over for to-day.

     [He goes up to mercy, and holds out his hand.  She does not take
     it, and runs out knuckling her eyes.  Strangway turns on his
     heel and goes into the house.]

Connie.  ’Twasn’t his bird.

Ivy.  Skylarks belong to the sky.  Mr. Strangway said so.

Gladys.  Not when they’m caught, they don’t.

Ivy.  They du.

Connie.  ’Twas her bird.

Ivy.  He gave her sixpence for it.

Gladys.  She didn’t take it.

Connie.  There it is on the ground.

Ivy.  She might have.

Gladys.  He’ll p’raps take my squirrel, tu.

Ivy.  The bird sang—­I ’eard it!  Right up in the sky.  It wouldn’t have sanged if it weren’t glad.

Gladys.  Well, Mercy cried.