"Only think, Angel," Mr. Willis said to his little daughter after Gilbert had gone, "he is quite self-taught. He never took a drawing lesson in his life. He has real talent, and I have been telling him that if his father will permit it, I will gladly give him some lessons; he would be a promising pupil. What are you looking so thoughtful about, my dear?"
"I was thinking what a disappointment it must be to you, father, that I have no talent for drawing," she responded gravely; "you were so pleased with those freehand drawings Gerald did at school."
"Naturally I was. We shall see what you do at school; if you cannot learn to draw, there are plenty of other things you can master, I am sure."
"Oh yes," Angel agreed, her face brightening. "It will be delightful to go to school. Only a week longer to wait. Dinah and Dora Mickle say they will be sorry when the holidays are over, but I shall be so glad. Gerald hasn't returned yet, has he, father?"
"I have not seen him since you left."
When Gerald strolled into the house a half-hour later, he was in a thoughtful mood. He listened inattentively to the account his sister gave him of how she had spent the morning, and offered no confidences in return.
"Wasn't it dreadful about the little birds?" Angel said, after she had repeated Dora's story of the tragedy.
"Oh, bother the birds!" he cried irritably. "What a fuss every one makes about them! First Gilbert, and now you—"
He paused, noticing Angel's look of astonishment. It was not that he was not sorry the birds were dead, but his feeling of guilt made him hate to hear of them. He turned impatiently away, muttering under his breath that girls were too soft-hearted for anything, and Gilbert Mickle was just as bad.