Wyllard pointed towards the south. “From Florida, Cuba, Yucatan; further than that, perhaps. In a day or two they’ll push on again toward the Pole, and others will take their places. There’s a further detachment arriving now.”
Looking up, Agatha saw a straggling wedge of birds dotted in dusky specks against the vault of transcendental blue. The wedge coalesced, drew out again, and dropped swiftly, and the air was filled with the rush of wings; then there was a harsh crying and splashing, and she heard the troubled water lap among the reeds until deep silence closed in upon the slough again.
“The migrating instinct is strangely interesting,” she said.
A curious look crept into Wyllard’s eyes.
“It gives the poor birds a sad destiny, I think; they’re wanderers and strangers without a habitation; there’s unrest in them. After a few months on the tundra mosses to gather strength and teach the young to fly, they’ll unfold their wings to beat another passage before the icy gales. Some of us, I think, are like them!”
Agatha could not avoid the personal application.
“You surely don’t apply that to yourself,” she said. “You certainly have a habitation—the finest, isn’t it, on this part of the prairie?”
“Yes,” answered Wyllard slowly; “I suppose it is. I’ve now had a little rest and quietness too.”
His last remark did not appear to call for an answer, and Agatha sat silent.
“Still,” he went on reflectively, “I have a feeling that some day the call will come, and I shall have to take the trail again.” He paused, and looked at her before he added, “It would be easier if one hadn’t to go alone, or, since that would be necessary, if one had at least something to come back to when the journey was done.”