“A bird?” repeated Christie. “I never thought of that. Are they very dear?”
“We can ask,” said John; and as Christie stood admiring the gay plumage of some strange bird, he put the question to the person in waiting. Christie did not hear his answer. John did not mean that she should.
“Could you spare two dollars, Christie?” said he.
“Two dollars!” she repeated. It was the wages of half a month.
“I have cheaper ones,” said the man, “but he is the best singer I have had for a long time. Or maybe you would like a pair?”
“A pair!” thought Christie to herself. If she could manage to get one she would be content! As if to verify the words of his owner, the bird, after hopping quickly from perch to perch, poured forth such a flood of melody as Christie had never heard from a bird’s throat before.
“Oh, how sweet!” exclaimed she. “To think of little Allie having music like that all the winter long! But how can you carry it, John?”
Oh, John could carry it easily—no fear; and touched by Christie’s eager delight, or by some more powerful cause, the man let the cage go with the bird.
So that was settled.
“We’re done now, I suppose,” said Christie, with a sigh, as they passed along the shady side of the street. The excitement of pleasure was passing out of her face; and more than ever before, since the first glimpse he got of it, did John Nesbitt realise what a pale, weary little face it was.