“Honest?” she scowled.
The boy was already counting out the sum from his meager handful of small coins, and in a moment the gray bird had again changed owners.
As Blue started up the steep stairs to the top floor of The Flatiron, he wished it had been possible to give his purchase a bath before revealing it to the keen eyes of Doodles; but then the little brother would have had just so much less of happy ministration for his pet. For, of course, the bird would belong to Doodles. There had never been any other thought of it in Blue’s mind.
Down the dim stairway floated a strain of melody, and it told the boy agreeable news,—that his mother had come home and was getting dinner, that things had gone well at the big shop where she worked, and that the little brother was not suffering from the “bad spell” which had threatened in the morning. Mrs. Stickney rarely sang when Doodles was in unusual pain, and if she did it was not in so brisk a voice.
The song grew clearer, the words came distinctly now.
“Je—ru—sa—lem, the gold—en,
With milk and hon—ey blest!
Be—neath thy contempla—tion
Sink heart and voice oppressed:
I know not, oh, I know not,