In the period of grass-widowhood which ensued, Mrs. Cluffins’s visits formed almost the sole relief to the bare monotony of existence. As a companion the parrot was an utter failure, its language being so irredeemably bad that it spent most of its time in the spare room with a cloth over its cage, wondering when the days were going to lengthen a bit. Mrs. Cluffins suggested selling it, but her friend repelled the suggestion with horror, and refused to entertain it at any price, even that of the publican at the corner, who, having heard of the bird’s command of language, was bent upon buying it. “I wonder what that beauty will have to tell your husband,” said Mrs. Cluffins, as they sat together one day some three months after the _Curlew’s_ departure. “I should hope that he has forgotten that nonsense,” said Mrs. Gannett, reddening; “he never alludes to it in his letters.” “Sell it,” said Mrs. Cluffins peremptorily. “It’s no good to you, and Hobson would give anything for it almost.” Mrs. Gannett shook her head. “The house wouldn’t hold my husband if I did,” she remarked with a shiver. “Oh, yes, it would,” said Mrs. Cluffins; “you do as I tell you, and a much smaller house than this would hold him. I told C. to tell Hobson he should have it for five pounds.” “But he mustn’t,” said her friend in alarm. “Leave yourself right in my hands,” said Mrs. Cluffins, spreading out two small palms and regarding them complacently. “It’ll be all right, I promise you.” She put her arm round her friend’s waist and led her to the window, talking earnestly. In five minutes Mrs. Gannett was wavering, in ten she had given way, and in fifteen the energetic Mrs. Cluffins was _en route_ for Hobson’s, swinging the cage so violently in her excitement that the parrot was reduced to holding on to its perch with claws and bill. Mrs. Gannett watched the progress from the window, and with a queer look on her face sat down to think out the points of attack and defence in the approaching fray. A week later a four-wheeler drove up to the door, and the engineer, darting upstairs three steps at a time, dropped an armful of parcels on the floor, and caught his wife in an embrace which would have done credit to a bear. Mrs. Gannett, for reasons of which lack of muscle was only one, responded less ardently. “Ha, it’s good to be home again,” said Gannett, sinking into an easy-chair and pulling his wife on his knee. “And how have you been? Lonely?” “I got used to it,” said Mrs. Gannett softly. The engineer coughed. “You had the parrot,” he remarked. “Yes, I had the magic parrot,” said Mrs. Gannett. “How’s it getting on?” said her husband, looking round. “Where is it?” “Part of it is on the mantelpiece,” said Mrs. Gannett, trying to speak calmly, “part of it is in a bonnet-box upstairs, some of it’s in my pocket, and here is the remainder.” She fumbled in her pocket and placed in his hand a cheap two-bladed clasp knife.