And as Magdalen started up to catch the bird, or Hoodie, whichever it was--in her dream it seemed both--she awoke. It was bright daylight already, though only five o'clock. Outside in the garden the sun was shining beautifully, the air, as Magdalen opened her window, felt deliciously fresh and sweet, everything had the peaceful untroubled look of very early morning--of a very early spring morning especially--when the birds and the flowers and the sunshine and the breezes have had it all to themselves, as it were, undisturbed by the troubles and difficulties and disagreements that busy day is sure to bring with it, as long as there are men and women, and boys and girls, in this puzzling world of ours. Though, after all, it is better to be a child than a bird or a flower--whatever mistakes we may make, whatever wrong we may do, all, alas, adding to the great mass of mistakes and wrong--whatever sorrows we may have to bear, it is something to feel in us the power of bearing them, the power of _trying_ to put right even what we may have helped to put wrong--best of all the power of loving each other, and of helping each other in a way that the happy, innocent birds and flowers know nothing about. Is it not better to be _ourselves_, after all? Magdalen leant out of the window, enjoying the sweet air and sunshine, but thinking all the time how much more she would have enjoyed this bright morning but for her sympathy with poor Hoodie's trouble. Suddenly a thought struck her. _Possibly_ the bird, chilled and hungry after some hours' freedom, unaccustomed to be out in the dark, or to find food for itself--_possibly_ he might have returned to his cage in the night. Magdalen threw on her dressing-gown and hurried into the ante-room. The window was open, the cage-door stood open too, everything was ready to welcome the little wanderer--fresh seed in the box, fresh water in the glass--Hoodie had seen to it all herself before going to bed--but that was all! There was no little feathered occupant in the cage--it was empty, and with a fresh feeling of disappointment, Magdalen stood by the window again, looking out at the bright morning, and wondering what she could do to comfort poor Hoodie. Outside, the birds were singing merrily. "Should I get her another bird?" thought Magdalen, "a canary, perhaps, accustomed to cage life? No, I think not. It might only lead to fresh disappointment; besides, I don't think Hoodie is the sort of child to care for another, _instead_. No, that wouldn't do." Suddenly a sort of flutter in the leaves round the window-frame--Mr. Caryll's house was an old one; there were creepers all over the walls--made Magdalen look up.