“What ungodly racket is this?” he asked. “Is a man to find no peace in his own house?”
Upon hearing his voice, Goodwife Higgins’ fright somewhat abated. She drew down her apron, and pointed speechlessly to Deliverance who was rigid with terror.
“Lord bless us!” cried the goodman. “Have you no wits at all, woman?” He laid the bowl on the table, unconsciously letting the herbs slip to the floor, and hastened to Deliverance’s assistance.
“You have catched a bird, daughter, but no singing-bird, only a loathsome bat. Why, Deliverance, weep not. My little Deliverance, there is naught to be frightened at. ’Tis a very pitiful thing,” he continued, lapsing into his musing tone, while his long fingers drew the fair hair from the bat’s claws with much deftness, “how some poor, pitiful creatures be made with nothing for to win them grace and kind looks, only a hideous body, so that silly women scatter like as a viper had come amongst them; and yet, even the vipers and toads have jewelled eyes, did one but look for them.”
He crossed the room, and put the bat outside, then bolted the door for the night.
“I am minded of your dear mother, daughter,” he said, a tender smile on his face; “she was just so silly about some poor, pitiful creature which had no fine looks for to win it smiles. But she was ay bonny to the poor, Deliverance, and has weeped o’er many a soul in distress.”
Chapter III
The Yellow Bird
Goodwife Higgins, who kept the home for the little maid and her father, rose early the next day before the sun was up. The soft light of dawn filled the air; the eastern sky was breaking rosily. A moment, she stood in the doorway, inhaling with delight the fresh, delicious air, noting how the dew lay white as hoar-frost on the grass. She made the fire and put the kettle on to boil, filling it first with water from the spring. Then she went to Deliverance’s room to awaken her, loath to do so, for she felt the little maid had become very weary the previous day. To her surprise she found the small hooded bed empty.