Eily advanced, and put her chin ever so gently on, her young master’s knee.
No, it was not a bone, but a bird, a lovely martin.
Not a tooth had Eily put in it, not a feather had she ruffled, and hardly had she wetted its plumage.
Harry took it tenderly in his hand.
“Where did you get it, Eily? In the loft?”
Eily wagged her tail.
Swift as lightning though they may fly out of doors, no bird is more easily captured inside than the house-martin. If found in a loft they appear to lose presence of mind at once, and after flying about for a short time usually alight against the glass. When one is taken its little heart may be felt beating against the hand, as if it verily would break.
And no wonder.
Fancy, reader, how you should feel were you captured by some great ogre, taller than a steeple, and carried away, expecting death every minute.
“Give it to me, Eily. Give it quick. I hope you haven’t draggled its plumage very much. Now shut the door.”