“You must run away and play, Birdie, and not annoy your brother,” said Mrs. Lyon, disengaging the child’s clinging arms from Rex’s neck. “That child is growing altogether too observing of late.”
“Child!” cried Birdie. “I am ten years old. I shall soon be a young lady like Bess and Gertie, over at Glengrove.”
“And Eve,” suggested Rex, the shadow of a smile flickering around his mouth.
“No, not like Eve,” cried the child, gathering up her crutch and sun-hat as she limped toward the door; “Eve is not a young lady, she’s a Tom-boy; she wears short dresses and chases the hounds around, while the other two wear silk dresses with big, big trains and have beaus to hold their fans and handkerchiefs. I am going to take my new books you sent me down to my old seat on the stone wall and read those pretty stories there. I don’t know if I will be back for lunch or not,” she called back; “if I don’t, will you come for me, Brother Rex?”
“Yes, dear,” he made answer, “of course I will.”
The lunch hour came and went, still Birdie did not put in an appearance. At last Rex was beginning to feel uneasy about her.
“You need not be the least alarmed,” said Mrs. Lyon, laughingly, “the child is quite spoiled; she is like a romping gypsy, more content to live out of doors in a tent than to remain indoors. She is probably waiting down on the stone 97 wall for you to come for her and carry her home as you used to do. You had better go down and see, Rex; it is growing quite dark.”
And Rex, all unconscious of the strange, invisible thread which fate was weaving so closely about him, quickly made his way through the fast-gathering darkness down the old familiar path which led through the odorous orange groves to the old stone wall, guided by the shrill treble of Birdie’s childish voice, which he heard in the distance, mingled with the plaintive murmur of the sad sea-waves––those waves that seemed ever murmuring in their song the name of Daisy. Even the subtle breeze seemed to whisper of her presence.