I laughed. I stood away from the child and laughed ironically. The laugh saved the situation. Wanza raised her head, gave a watery smile, and flung out.
“You needn’t laugh. You were thinking too much of her—you know you was.”
“Please, Wanza,—don’t!”
“Now your face is black again.” Wanza’s mood changed swiftly. “Oh, Mr. Dale, I have a weight here,” she laid her hand on her chest. “I feel things pressing,—awful things! What’s going to happen, do you think, that I feel so queer and blue and bad?”
I shook my head. She went on quickly:
“Of course I’m broke up about leaving Cedar Dale just now, I just can’t bear to quit you and Joey—and the birds—and squirrels—and flowers—”
The tears were brimming up again in the velvet-blue eyes. I walked over to the waxwing’s cage, snapped shut the door on the tiny prisoner, and handed the cage to Wanza.
“Take him with you,” I bade her.
With the cage clasped in her arms, her eyes flooded with tears, but with smiles on her mobile lips, she went from the shop, backward, step by step.
After Wanza came Joey. A transfigured Joey. Wild with rage at the big man, threatening, and bombastic. Then softening into plaintive grief, wailing: