It was no very pleasant business following Hoodie across the long, soppy grass; even if one were quite careless of the effect on one's clothes, the soaking of one's feet and ankles was disagreeable, to say the least. But Magdalen faced it bravely, and found herself at last beside her troublesome charge. Hoodie, not content with having thoroughly drenched her fat little legs and feet in their pretty clothing of open-work socks and "mirocco" slippers, was actually down on her knees in the wet grass, tenderly stroking the ruffled feathers of the little bird whose misfortunes had aroused her sympathy, while tears poured down her face, and her voice was broken with sobs as, looking up, she saw her cousin, and cried out-- "Oh, Maudie's godmother, him's dead. The innicent little sweet. I do believe him's dead, or just going to deaden. I daren't lift him up. Oh dear, oh dear!" It was impossible to scold her--her grief was so real; so with one rueful glance at the destruction already wrought on the nice blue merino frock and frilled muslin pinafore, Magdalen set to work to soothe and comfort the excited little girl. "Hush, Hoodie dear," she said. "You really mustn't cry so, even if the poor little bird is dead." "But Hoodie can't help it, for you know, Maudie's godmother, little birds doesn't go to heaven when they's dead--not like good people, you know, so I can't help crying." To this reason for Hoodie's tears Magdalen thought it best to make no reply, but she stooped down and carefully lifted up the little bird. It was a pretty little creature--its wings and breast marked with delicately shaded colour, though just now the feathers were ruffled and disordered--a very young bird; and Magdalen's country-bred eyes recognized it at once as a greenfinch. "Poor little birdie," she said gently, as she held it up to examine it more closely. "I wonder if its troubles are really over," she added to herself softly, not wishing to rouse Hoodie's hopes before she was sure of grounds for them. "No--it is not dead. It certainly is not--only stunned and terrified. Hoodie, the little bird is not dead. Leave off crying dear, and look at it. See, its little heart is beating quite plainly--there now, it is moving its wings. I don't think it is even much, or at all hurt." Hoodie drew near, her tear-stained cheeks all glowing with eagerness, holding her breath just as she did when her father for a great treat let her peep into the works of his watch. "Him's not dead," she exclaimed. "_Oh_, Cousin Magdalen, are you _sure_ him's not dead? Oh, what _can_ we do to make him quite well again?" She clasped her hands together with intense eagerness, and looked up in Magdalen's face as if her very life hung upon her words.