“No,” I said, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, “I release it; I toss it back into the air; it flies away without a thought of me, glad only to escape; but I—I remember it, and love it, and I thank heaven for the chance which drove it to me.”
Impulsively she reached out her hand and touched my own.
“That is more like yourself,” she said. “Now I know you again. And perhaps, my friend, the bird is not so ungrateful as you think.”
“It may even return to the bosom which sheltered it?” I asked softly, leaning forward. “You think that, mademoiselle?”
“I fancy it would fear to do so.”
“Fear?” I repeated. “Surely—that least of all!”
“Fear that it might not find the bosom empty,” she explained remorselessly; and I saw the old light in her eyes. “Fear that it might blunder upon another occupant with a better right——”
I drew away from her, wounded, stung.
“But whether it returns or not,” she added in a gentler tone, “I am sure it will never forget.”
And with that comfort, cold as it was, I was forced to be content.