“My last activity shall be for the birds,” she smiled, as she came back with the pitcher. As if in gratitude, a bird came winging out of the orchard behind her, and dipped his breast and bill in the water.
“The darling!” I heard her exclaim, under her breath.
We took the pitcher inside, and I saw her glance at the flowers in the vases. “I ought to get you some fresh ones,” she said.
“No,” I answered. “Those shall stay a long while, in memory of the good fairy. Now I will show you my house. You have never seen my house above the first story.”
“It isn’t proper,” she laughed. “I shouldn’t be even here, in the south room.”
“But you have been here many times.”
Again she laughed. “Stupid! But Mrs. Pillig wasn’t here then!”
“Oh!” said I, a light dawning on my masculine stupidity, “I begin to realize the paradoxes of propriety. And now I see at last why I shouldn’t have asked you to pick the paint for the dining-room–when I did.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she looked into my face with sudden gravity. “I wonder if you do understand?” she answered. Slowly a half-wistful smile crept into the corners of her mouth, and she shook her head. “No, you don’t; you don’t at all.”
Then her old laugh came bubbling up. “I suspect Mrs. Pillig is more of an authority on pies than propriety,” she said in a cautious voice, “and, besides, I’m going away to-morrow, and, besides, I don’t care anyway. Lead on.”