"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a very beautiful bird who, as it chanced, grew up with a lot of crows. For a long while he liked the crows, and the crows liked him—very much, some of them. Both he and the crows were pleased when the eagles and all the swell birds admired him, and said nice things about him, and wanted to know him—and the crows who liked him most were most pleased. Presently he did come to know the eagles and the other swell birds, and he liked them very much, and he began to get a little tired of the old crows, and by and by he left their company a good deal. He was a polite bird and a kind bird, and never told them that he didn't want them any more. But they saw he didn't."
There was a little sob from the armchair.
"Whereupon some of them broke their hearts, and others—didn't. The others were wisest, Nellie."
He paused, gazing down at the distressful little heap of crumpled drapery and roughened gleaming hair.
"Much wisest. He was not a bad bird as birds go—but not a bird to break one's heart about, Nellie: what bird is?"
There was another sob. Philip looked despairingly at the ceiling and exclaimed under his breath:
"I wish to God she wouldn't cry!"
He took his book from the mantelpiece where he had laid it and moved toward the door. But he came back again, unable to leave her like that, and walked restlessly about the room, stopping every now and then to stand over her, and wonder what he could do.
Presently he took a feverish little hand in his, and pressed it as it lay limp there.
"The old crows stood by one another, Nellie," he said, and he thought he felt a sudden grip of his hand, coming and timidly in an instant going.