“Oh, my dear! Then you haven’t heard the news,” cried Mrs. Severn.
“What news?” asked Beth.
“About poor Mr. Montague. About my poor parrot,” said the lady.
“I have heard nothing about the parrot—no,” admitted Beth.
“Why, we took up that heavy carpet in my room ten days ago and what do you think?”
“Oh, Mrs. Severn!” exclaimed Beth, suddenly interested and excited. “Did you find——?”
“Ever so many things I had missed—yes,” said the lady, complacently. “The poor dear had been taking and hiding things under the edge of the carpet, along the mopboard under the windows. That sunburst of mine was found right under the bay window. Wasn’t that funny?”
Beth thought of the grief and shame the loss of the sunburst had caused her, and she could not, for the life of her, extract an iota of humor from the fact.
“But that was just like the wretched creature,” went on Mrs. Severn. “Will you believe it? That parrot had deceived me for years and years. Quite twenty years I have owned him. But now I have sent him away for good.”
And the selfish old woman drove away, leaving Beth something to be thankful for, but feeling that Mrs. Ricardo Severn was a very unfeeling person.