“Yes. I been a month.”
“You do too much for me. I have been very selfish to take so much of your time.”
Jerome put up his lip like a grieved child.
“Don’t do that!” said Miss Brooks sharply, blanching white.
“What must I do?”
“Sit down here, and let me read to you.”
He sat on the grass and she read austerely, the weird heart-cry of the wind harp curving around her voice or whipping it with ravelings of sweetness. She read while the sun slipped lower and lower, and dared not look at the rapt face watching her. Then she shut the book and said with careful modulation:—
“Thank you very much for the wind harp. I shall take it home with me, and whenever it plays I shall think of you.”
His grieved lip instantly smiled. “If you fasten it in your window it will play all the time!”
“There is one other thing I would love to have, and that is a feather from Billy.”