"I don't know," returned Mrs. Peters; "unless it got sick and died." But after she said it she reached over and swung the broken door. Both women watched it as if somehow held by it. "You didn't know--her?" Mrs. Hale asked, a gentler note in her voice. "Not till they brought her yesterday," said the sheriff's wife. "She--come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself. Real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and--fluttery. How--she--did--change." That held her for a long time. Finally, as if struck with a happy thought and relieved to get back to every-day things, she exclaimed: "Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don't you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind." "Why, I think that's a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale," agreed the sheriff's wife, as if she too were glad to come into the atmosphere of a simple kindness. "There couldn't possibly be any objection to that, could there? Now, just what will I take? I wonder if her patches are in here--and her things." They turned to the sewing basket. "Here's some red," said Mrs. Hale, bringing out a roll of cloth. Underneath that was a box. "Here, maybe her scissors are in here--and her things." She held it up. "What a pretty box! I'll warrant that was something she had a long time ago--when she was a girl." She held it in her hand a moment; then, with a little sigh, opened it. Instantly her hand went to her nose. "Why--!" Mrs. Peters drew nearer--then turned away. "There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk," faltered Mrs. Hale. "This isn't her scissors," said Mrs. Peters, in a shrinking voice. Her hand not steady, Mrs. Hale raised the piece of silk. "Oh, Mrs. Peters!" she cried. "It's--" Mrs. Peters bent closer. "It's the bird," she whispered. "But, Mrs. Peters!" cried Mrs. Hale. "_Look_ at it! Its _neck_--look at its neck! It's all--other side _to_." She held the box away from her. The sheriff's wife again bent closer. "Somebody wrung its neck," said she, in a voice that was slow and deep. And then again the eyes of the two women met--this time clung together in a look of dawning comprehension, of growing horror. Mrs. Peters looked from the dead bird to the broken door of the cage. Again their eyes met. And just then there was a sound at the outside door. Mrs. Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces in the basket, and sank into the chair before it. Mrs. Peters stood holding to the table. The county attorney and the sheriff came in from outside. "Well, ladies," said the county attorney, as one turning from serious things to little pleasantries, "have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?" "We think," began the sheriff's wife in a flurried voice, "that she was going to--knot it." He was too preoccupied to notice the change that came in her voice on that last. "Well, that's very interesting, I'm sure," he said tolerantly. He caught sight of the bird-cage. "Has the bird flown?"