Distinctly, through the slowly darkening green, he could see the boy putting all his heart into the song. James Minturn watched so closely he was not mistaken in thinking he could see the lad's figure grow tense as he delivered the notes, and relax when the answer relieved his anxiety as to whether it would come again, and then gather for another trial. At the last call the reply came from such a short distance that Mr. Minturn began intently watching from his shelter to witness the final triumph of seeing the bird Malcolm had called across the swamp, come into view. He could see that the boy was growing reckless, for as he delivered the strain, he stepped almost into the open, watching before him and slowly going ahead. With the answer, there was a discernible movement a few yards away. Mr. Minturn saw the boy start, and gazed at him. With bent body Malcolm stared before him, and then his father heard his amazed, awed cry: "_Why mother!_ Is that _you_, mother?" "_Malcolm! Are you Malcolm?_" came the incredulous answer. James Minturn was stupefied. Distinctly he could see now. He did not recognize the knee boots, the outing suit of coarse green material, but the beautiful pink face slowly paling, the bright waving hair framing it, he knew very well. Astonishment bound him. Malcolm advanced another step, still half dazed, and cried: "Why, have I been calling _you?_ I thought it was the bird I saw, still answering!" "And I believed you were the Hermit singing!" she said. "But you fooled the bird," said the boy. "Close here it answered you." "And near me it called you," said Mrs. Minturn. "Your notes were quite as perfect." Malcolm straightened and seemed reassured. "Why mother!" he exclaimed. "When did you study _bird_ music? Have you just come back?" "I've been away only two weeks, Malcolm," she answered, "and if it hadn't been for learning the bird notes, I'd have returned sooner." "But where have you _been?_" cried the boy. "At home. I reserved my suite!" she answered. "But home's all torn up, and pounding and sick people, and you hate pounding and sick people," he reminded her. "There wasn't so very much noise, Malcolm," she said, "and I've changed about sickness. You have to suffer yourself to do that. Once you learn how dreadful pain is, you feel only pity for those who endure it. Every night when the nurses are resting, I change so no one knows me, and slip into the rooms of the suffering little children who can't sleep, and try to comfort them." "Mother, who takes care of _you?_" he questioned. "A very sensible girl named Susan," she answered. The boy went a step closer. "Mother, have you changed about anything besides sickness?" he asked eagerly. "Yes Malcolm," said his mother. "I've changed about every single thing in all this world that I ever said, or did, or loved, when you knew me." "You have?" he cried in amazement. "Would you wear that dress and come to the woods with us now, and do some of the things we like?"