“It's no use trying to do anything,” said Freckles. “You won't forget the muff and the Christmas box. The muff especial?”
There was a movement above them so pronounced that it attracted Freckles' attention, even in that extreme hour. He looked up, and a pleased smile flickered on his drawn face.
“Why, if it ain't me Little Chicken!” he cried hoarsely. “He must be making his very first trip from the log. Now Duncan can have his big watering-trough.”
“It was Little Chicken that made me late,” faltered the Angel. “I was so anxious to get here early I forgot to bring his breakfast from the carriage. He must have been hungry, for when I passed the log he started after me. He was so wabbly, and so slow flying from tree to tree and through the bushes, I just had to wait on him, for I couldn't drive him back.”
“Of course you couldn't! Me bird has too amazing good sinse to go back when he could be following you,” exulted Freckles, exactly as if he did not realize what the delay had cost him. Then he lay silently thinking, but presently he asked slowly: “And so 'twas me Little Chicken that was making you late, Angel?”
“Yes,” said the Angel.
A spasm of fierce pain shook Freckles, and a look of uncertainty crossed his face.
“All summer I've been thanking God for the falling of the feather and all the delights it's brought me,” he muttered, “but this looks as if——”
He stopped short and raised questioning eyes to McLean.
“I can't help being Irish, but I can help being superstitious,” he said. “I mustn't be laying it to the Almighty, or to me bird, must I?”