"By the bye, I'd better go and speak to her about it," said Magdalen. "Shall I tell the other children to come up-stairs, Martin? And my poor letter," she said, smiling rather dolefully, as she went out of the nursery, "I'll never get it written before luncheon, for I must superintend the feeding of the bird, otherwise the children will certainly kill it with kindness." Magdalen had a good deal of experience in rearing little birds and little lambs, and all such small unfortunates. She had always lived in the country, and having neither brothers nor sisters her tender heart had given its affections to the dumb creatures about her. It was fortunate for the foundling bird that it fell into her hands, as had it been left to Hoodie's affectionate cares its history would certainly have been quickly told. She was very indignant with Magdalen for the very tiny portions of bread and milk, which was all she would allow it to have, and asked her indignantly if she meant to "'tarve" the poor little pet. "Hush, Hoodie," said her mother, who had come to see the little bird. "If you speak so to Cousin Magdalen I certainly will not let you keep the bird. You should thank her _very_ much for being so kind to you and giving up all her morning to you." Hoodie did not condescend to take any notice of her mother's reproof. "Hoodie," said Mrs. Caryll, "do you not hear what I say?" No reply. "_Hoodie_," more sternly. Hoodie looked up at last. "Mamma dear," she said sweetly, "may I keep the little bird for my vezzy own? Cousin Magdalen said she would ask you if I might." Her mother looked puzzled. "If you are good perhaps I will let you keep it," she replied. Hoodie looked up sharply. "Did Cousin Magdalen ask you to let me keep it, Mamma?" she inquired. "Yes," said her mother. Hoodie turned to Magdalen. "Thank you, Maudie's godmother," she said condescendingly. "I thought perhaps you had forgottened." "And you wouldn't thank me till you were sure--was that it--eh, Hoodie?" said Magdalen. One of her funny twinkles came into Hoodie's green eyes. "I like peoples what doesn't forget," she remarked, with a toss of her shaggy head. Magdalen turned away to hide her amusement, but Hoodie's mother whispered rather dolefully, "Magdalen, was there _ever_ such a child?" And Hoodie heard the words, and her little face grew hard and sullen. "I'm always naughty," she said to herself. "Naughty when I tell true, and naughty when I don't tell true. Nobody loves me, but I'll teach my bird to love me." "What is to be done about a cage for this little creature?" said Magdalen, looking up from her occupation of feeding the greenfinch with quillfuls of bread and milk. "Isn't there an old one anywhere about, that would do?" "I'm afraid not," said Hoodie's mother. "What can we do?" "Leave it in the basket for the present," said Magdalen. "And--if Hoodie is _very_ good, perhaps----" "Perhaps what?" said Hoodie, very eagerly.