“Now, won’t you tell me your name?” asked the boy. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d like to know your name.”
“Why, yes, I’ll tell you,” she replied, with charming frankness; “I’m called ‘Lady Jane.’”
“Lady Jane!” repeated the boy; “why, that’s a very odd name.”
“Papa always called me Lady Jane, and now every one does.”
The mother looked at the child sadly, while tears dimmed her eyes.
“Perhaps you would like to see the little fellow, too,” said the boy, rising and holding the basket so that the lady could look into it. “White herons are very common about here, but blue herons are something of a curiosity.”
“Thank you. It is indeed very odd. Did you find it yourself?” she asked with some show of interest.
“Yes, I came upon it quite unexpectedly. I was hunting on my uncle’s plantation, just beyond the station where I got on. It was almost dark; and I was getting out of the swamp as fast as I could, when right under my feet I heard ‘tone—tone,’ and there was this little beggar, so young that he couldn’t fly, looking up at me with his bright eyes. I took him home and tamed him, and now he knows my voice the moment I speak. He’s very amusing.”
The boy was standing, resting the basket on the arm of the seat, and the child was caressing the bird with both dimpled hands.
“She likes him very much,” he said, smiling brightly.