We went down to breakfast, very clean and neat, with short, sober steps that suited both our gaits. Father came hurrying to meet us and was quite overjoyed to see me; but, although I searched in all the closets and behind the doors, there was no mother in any of the rooms. When no one was looking at me I started upstairs to hunt for her. Grandmother called me back in that old tone which must be obeyed, which had the ring of authority and catechism in it.
"Stay here, Rhoda," she said, decisively. "You are not to go out of this room."
Then with cautious steps she mounted up herself, passing into the forbidden regions, and father and I were all that were left of the circle about the table, which was usually so gay with talk and merriment. To my eyes father had a look as if he, too, were frightened.
"Never mind, father," I said, eagerly. "Rhoda won't run away."
He took me up with rather an apologetic laugh.
"Little daughter," he said, in a tender way, "did I ever tell you about the big bird?"
"No, father," I answered, quickly.
"Not about the time when it brought me Rhoda?"
I stared at him with delighted eyes. Evidently I was going to hear something of great importance, something which concerned me alone.
"Three years ago," my father began, in an easy fashion, "I thought I'd like a little daughter. So I sent a letter to a beautiful big bird which lives far away where the blue sky comes down to the ground. The bird has lots of little babies—girl babies and boy babies—on the shore of a lake where the sun shines day and night. She's a very good-natured bird, and sometimes when she hears of a father who's lonely because he hasn't any children, she'll put a little baby under her wing, and fly on over the beautiful country until she comes to its father's house. Now the bird knew that I was very lonely, because I had sent her a letter, so one day she picked up little Rhoda out of a lily leaf, and came flying along—flying along—"