That should explain everything; surely the woman must understand. Yet there was no response. The Baroness stood upright again, grasping her parasol and looking down with a sort of respectful indifference. Sabina said nothing, but took up the dead bird very tenderly, as if it could still feel that she loved it, and she pressed it softly to her breast, bending her head to it, and then kissing the yellow feathers. When it was alive it used to nestle there, almost as it lay now. It had been very tame.
"I suppose a cat killed it," said the Baroness, wishing to say something.
Sabina shook her head. She had found it lying there, not wounded, its feathers not torn—just dead. It was of no use to answer. She rose to her feet, still holding the tiny body against her bosom, and she looked at the Baroness, mutely asking what had brought her there, and wishing that she would go away.
"I came to see your sister," said the elder woman, with something like apology in the tone.
Sabina was still very pale, and her delicate lips were pressed together, but there were no tears in her eyes, as she waited for the Baroness to say more.
"Then I heard the bad news," the latter continued. "I heard it from the porter."
Sabina looked at her quietly. If she had heard the bad news, why had she not gone away? The Baroness began to feel uncomfortable. She almost quailed before the pale girl of seventeen, slender as a birch sapling in her light frock.
"It occurred to me," she continued nervously, "that I might be of use."
"You are very kind," Sabina answered, with the faintest air of surprise, "but I really do not see that you could do anything."
"Perhaps your mother would allow you to spend a few days with me—until things are more settled," suggested the Baroness.