"It is not broken," he said, after he had carefully examined the poor wing, stretching it out in a way that made me shiver to see; "it is only sprained. It will get better, but it will perhaps never be quite well. See—this is all that can be done," and he took a feather from a cup with some fine oil in it, standing on a table. "You must paint it with oil—so—two or three times a day. You see?" and Mamma nodded her head, and said, yes, she quite understood.
"She will get better," repeated the man, "she will not die of her wing, but she will die of loneliness. You must get her a companion."
I came forward eagerly.
"Mamma," I said, "would he sell us one? I have two marks." A mark is the same as a shilling.
Mamma asked him the question. He looked round his many cages doubtfully. "I did not want to sell any just now," he said, and I really don't think he did. "But it would be a shame for her to pine to death. Yes—I can let you have one of these young birds for three marks. Choose which you like," and he pointed to a cage containing three or four.
"I have only two marks," I whispered.
"And there is a new cage to get," said Charley. But Mamma was very kind.
"I will help you," she said. "Yes, sir, we will take one of these. You are sure they will be friends?"
"No fear," said the man in his queer, jerky way, "and this young bird will sing like a heavenly angel next spring. Will you take him now, or shall I bring him this evening?"