Flora was right. She turned her head and forgot all about it. There was something else to think of. Somebody was getting over the wall at the foot of the garden. Who was it? She ran to the other end of the porch to see.
"Is that you?" she called. No answer. "Is that you, I say?"
Bertie (for it was Bertie,) looked up and nodded. He came across the beds that were covered with the dry stalks and stems of last year's flowers, and up the path, quite slowly.
"Hurry," cried Flora, impatiently.
Bertie shook his head to signify that he could not hurry, and then she saw that he carried something in both hands, and he carried it carefully.
"What is it," she demanded.
"Hush!" said Bertie. "It is a timid little thing, and you must not make a noise. You can come up softly and look."
He cautiously parted his hands, and Flora looked in; but the space was very narrow, and she was so eager that she could not see very well. So he separated his hands a little more, and then she saw the bright eyes and round head of a bird.
"Oo!" she exclaimed.
"Robin," said Bertie.