"There was a sheet of an excellent religious paper wrapped about that gaiter. You might give it to her to read."
"Thank you, ma'am, I will, though she takes more comfort reading the dream-book than anything."
"Burn the dream-book. It is probably at the root of the trouble."
"No," replied the cobbler, slowly, "It all began when we lost our daughter."
Mrs. Handsomebody was touched. "That is sad indeed. How old was the child?"
"Just two days old, ma'am. We were camping in a forest when she was born, and I had laid her in a little hammock among the birds, and some gypsies must have stolen her, for when I came back she was gone. She'd be eighteen now." He stroked his leather apron with trembling hands, at the same time giving me a curious look of appeal. So when Mrs. Handsomebody, after a few words of sympathy made a movement to go, I developed a strange pain in the leg, that made walking an impossibility. She consented that I should rest a while at the cobbler's, and then return home carrying the gaiter.
When Martindale and I were left alone, he cautiously opened the door into the passage, peered out, and then returned. He said softly:
"Little Master, I've got to get rid of Coppertoes. She's turned against him. She says he comes out of his cage of nights, and flies about the house, pecking at the food, and trying to make a nest in her hair. She says he stole a golden sovereign of hers and hid it in an old shoe. Isn't it a shame, and he such a lovely bird?"
"It's awful," I agreed. "What shall you do?"
"I know a man who will buy him, but he is out of town till tomorrow. Could I depend on you, little master, to keep him for me till then? If he is left here the misses will do him an injury."