"The latter part of February. I passed the spring months in Paris."
"You did not write," said Gertrude in a faltering voice.
"No, I was expecting to come across by every steamer, and wanted to surprise you."
Gertrude looked confused, but replied, "I was disappointed about the letters; but I am very glad to see you again, Willie."
"You can't be so glad as I am," said he, lowering his voice and looking at her with great tenderness. "You seem more and more like yourself to me every minute that I see you. I begin to think, however, that I ought to have written and told you I was coming."
Gertrude smiled. Willie's manner was so unchanged, his words so affectionate, that it seemed unkind to doubt his friendliness, although to his undivided love she felt she could have no claim. "No," said she, "I like surprises. Don't you remember, I always did?"
"Remember? Certainly," replied he; "I have never forgotten anything that you liked."
Just at this moment Gertrude's birds, whose cage hung in the window at which Willie sat, commenced a little twittering noise which they always made just at night. He looked up. "Your birds," said Gertrude; "the birds you sent me."
"Are they all alive and well?" asked he.
"Yes, all of them."