“But I can talk while I work, miss,” Richard went on; “and I will try again to remember.”
“Please, please do.”
Richard thought a little, and presently resuming the poem, went on to the end of the first part. As he finished the last stanza—
God save thee, ancient Mariner,
From the fiends that plague thee thus!—
Why look'st thou so?—With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross!'”—
“Ah!” cried Barbara, “I see now what made you think of the poem!”—and she looked down at the throbbing bird in her lap.
It opened its dark eyes once more—with a reeling, pitiful look at her, Barbara thought—quivered a little, and lay still. She burst into tears.
Richard dropped his work, and made a step toward her.
“Never mind,” she said. “One has got to cry so much, and I may as well cry for the bird! I'm all right now, thank you! Please go on. The bird is dead, and I'm glad. I will let it lie a little, and then bury it. If it be anywhere, perhaps it will one day know me, and then it will love me. Please go on with the poem. It will make me forget. I'm not bound to remember, am I—where I'm not to blame, I mean, and cannot help?”
“Certainly not!” acquiesced Richard, and began the second part.
“I see! I see!” cried Barbara, wiping her eyes. “They were cross with him for killing the bird, not because they loved the beautiful creature, but because it was unlucky to kill him! And then when nothing but good came, they said it was quite right to kill him, and told lies of him, and said he was a bad bird, and brought the fog and mist!—I wonder what's coming to them!—That's not the end, is it? It can't be!”