Hoodie gave a wriggle, but said no more. Not that she was vanquished however. She waited till bed-time, and then, after saying aloud as usual her little evening prayer, added a special clause for Martin's edification. "And p'ease, dear God, be sure not to forget to send the nice warm summer for my little bird, and don't let cold winter come back again by mistake." "It'll do no harm to _'amind_ God, any way," she observed with satisfaction, as she lay down in bed and composed herself for her night's repose. Weeks passed on and the nice warm summer came. Hoodie's devotion to her bird seemed to increase as time went on, and so much of her time was spent beside its cage that the nursery peace and quiet were much greater than before its arrival. One day, just after the nursery breakfast, she hastened to her pet as usual. Rather to her vexation she saw that her two little brothers were standing by the cage, of which the door was open, Miss King beside them. Hoodie frowned, but did not venture to say anything. "See, Hoodie," said Magdalen, "see how very confiding birdie has learnt to be. He has actually hopped on to Duke's finger when he whistled to him the way you do. It will do him no harm now to be friendly to other people too--now that he knows you so well. Look at him." "See, Hoodie," cried Duke in delight, holding up his stumpy little forefinger, on which birdie was contentedly perched. An ugly black cloud came over Hoodie's face. She darted forward, furious with anger. "I _won't_ have him pouch on your finger, Duke," she cried. "I won't have _anybody_ call him but me. I won't. I won't--he's the only thing that loves me and nobody's to touch him. Go away, naughty Duke; ugly Duke." She pushed Duke aside with one hand and with the other attempted, gently, notwithstanding her passion, to take the bird. The window was wide open, and the children were standing beside it. Magdalen, who was at the other side of the table on which stood the cage, hurried forward, but too late. Startled by Hoodie's loud voice, not recognizing in the furious little girl its gentle mistress, and with some instinct of self-preservation, the greenfinch, with a frightened uncertain note, flew off Duke's finger, alighted for one instant on the window-sill, from which it seemed for a moment to look at the group in the room, as if in farewell, then, before Magdalen could do anything, before Hoodie had taken in the idea of the misfortune that threatened her, raised its pretty wings with another soft reproachful note, and flew away--away out in the bright sunny garden, over the bushes and flowers, away--away--to some leafy corner up among the high trees, where there would be no angry voices to startle it, no quarrelsome children to frighten its tender little heart--no sound but the soft brush of the squirrel's furry tail among the branches, and the gentle flutter of the summer breeze. Away, away! But what did that "away" mean to poor broken-hearted Hoodie?