"Gerald didn't mean it," Tom broke in hastily. "Every one knows robins won't live in captivity."
Gerald had not known it, but he wisely held his peace, for he had had visions of rearing the young birds in a cage, and he now saw such a suggestion would not meet with the approval of his companions.
"I should so much like to see the nest," Angel said, "and I wouldn't touch it. Robins are such dear little birds! There was one that used to come to our sitting-room window in London, and pick up crumbs from the window-sill. He used to arrive regularly at breakfast-time—didn't he, Gerald?"
Gerald nodded. Dora was still looking at him disapprovingly; she could not imagine how any one could want to rob a nest, for in her eyes a bird's home was sacred; she thought Gerald must be a very cruel boy, but there she was wrong, for he was only thoughtless, and had no idea of inflicting pain. Dora was very tender-hearted, so much so indeed that if her family heard a sad story it was always— "Don't tell Dora!" And her mother sometimes wondered how the sensitive little girl would fight the battle of life in the years to come.
Soon several cowslip balls had been made, and the boys being weary of fishing, some one suggested a game of "Hunt the Hare" for a change. Tom was the first hare, and a fine run he gave the hounds across the meadows, over hedges and ditches, until it seemed he never would be caught. The Mickle children, accustomed to healthy, out-door exercise, were fleet of foot, but Gerald managed to keep pace with Dinah and Dora; Angel, however, soon grew breathless, and fell behind the others, who pressed hotly upon their quarry, leaving her behind. She followed, at a slower rate, in the direction they had taken, until, after climbing a hedge, she found herself in a narrow lane, and sank, crimson and panting, upon a mossy bank, incapable of proceeding further for the present. When Angel had somewhat regained her breath, she glanced around, and saw that no one was in sight, neither could she hear the sound of her late companions' voices, so she decided to wait where she was for a while, and rest a bit. It was cool and pleasant; the hedgerows were bursting into leaf, and the beech trees on either side of the road, meeting overhead, were tipped with foliage of the tenderest green, whilst fronds of ferns were pushing their way through the rich mouldy soil amidst a carpet of luxuriant moss. Angel heaved a sigh of perfect contentment. How happy she was! She felt at that moment as though she had not a trouble in the world. Her father was daily gaining health and strength; there were no worrying unpaid bills to weigh upon her mind; Uncle Edward was kindness itself, and she was growing to love her new home; and lastly, she thought how she was to go to the school which Dinah and Dora Mickle attended the coming term. Her life was to be a lonely one no longer, and she was to have the same advantages as her brother. How pleased her mother would be if she knew. The tears rushed to her eyes, gushed forth, and ran unheeded down her cheeks as she recalled the tones of her dead mother's voice, and pictured the dear face she had loved so well.
Angel was so engrossed with her thoughts that she never noticed some one approaching, till a peculiar tap-tap broke upon her ears, and looking up hastily she perceived Gilbert Mickle swinging himself along on his crutches.
"Good afternoon," he said, as he came in a line with the little girl.
"Good afternoon," she answered.
He paused, and looked at her inquisitively, noticing the tell-tale tears upon her flushed cheeks and her quivering lips. The thought entered his mind that the boys had been teasing her, for he knew his sisters and Tom had gone to join her and her brother in the meadows.
"You've been crying," he remarked, frowning till his heavy brows nearly met.