Fanny shook her head. She tried to open its beak, but could not succeed.
“O Norman, it already feels quite cold. It cannot open its beak, and its legs are stiff. It will never hop about any more, or pick up crumbs, or come flying to me, or sing in the morning to wake me up; poor, dear, little Pecksy is really dead.”
All this time she did not utter a word of anger or reproach. Instead of rushing at Norman and boxing his ears, as he had expected, she stood still, contemplating with grief her dead bird. Again the tears trickled from her eyes. For the first time in his life Norman felt ashamed of himself.
“I am very sorry,” he murmured; “I did not intend to kill the bird.”
“I was sure you did not,” she said. “I do not think any human being could be so cruel.”
“No, I did not—I did not,” said Norman. “But do you think that anybody else can make it live again?”
“Oh, no, no; I am sure no one can,” answered Fanny.
“Then, what are you going to do? Tell them all that I killed it?” asked Norman.
“I would rather you did that yourself,” said Fanny. “I cannot; it would break my heart to talk about it, and I should be so very, very sorry to say how it happened.”
“Then you really mean to say that you do not wish to tell granny or mamma, or to get Mr Maclean to whip me?” he asked, in a tone of surprise.