The afternoon was full of golden lights, the warm sun bringing a feeling of happy drowsiness. School was forgotten and the southern girl basked in the languorous fragrance of spring. Life had begun again for the world. Across from where she sat on a granite stone a little white butterfly lighted and slowly folded and unfolded its wings. It quivered on its resting place as though not yet accustomed to flight. The buds on the azalea were slowly opening. Everywhere life was close to fulfilment and yet as though waiting for some final word from sun or earth. "Please come here, Miss Ogilvie," Bob called, running up to her. "Look at this bird. I bet it's broken its wing." A white birch hung over the path by the water's edge and beneath it, on the smooth asphalt, fluttered a little bird, brilliant with black and orange markings. It hopped away as they approached, but made no flight, and as they followed they could mark each splotch of black and white and orange. "What is it?" Bob asked eagerly. "I never saw it before," Hertha said. "I think it belongs up in the treetops." Bob eyed the broken wing. "It was some boy," he said admiringly, "that could hit such a little thing with nothing but a stone." "Was that how it happened?" "Sure. I've seen the boys throwing stones up the trees, but it ain't often they bring down a bird." Making a tremendous effort, the bird flew on to a low branch of the birch. Amid the young green leaves its dress of orange and black showed gayer than ever. It reminded Hertha of one of Ellen's children, a little girl with shining black face and bright black eyes, who used to wear as a kerchief her mother's bandana. She was like a bird herself, swift of movement, trilling with song. "It was a mean thing to do," Hertha cried indignantly as she watched the warbler flutter and fall to the ground again. "Why couldn't they let it stay in the tree top? I suppose the boys think it's fun to bring it down with a stone." "Sure," said Bob cheerfully. "Don't you do it," his companion commanded. "Can't you see how it hurts? It's crippled through no fault of its own." "What do you think'll happen?" Bob asked, a little anxiously. Hertha's tone was making an impression on him. "I'm afraid it will die. Any animal can seize it now." "I tell you what." Bob's face brightened. "I'll catch it and put it in our old canary cage. Our bird's dead now, and we can feed this and hear it sing." He crouched to make a sudden spring, but Hertha held him back. "Don't!" she said. "Why not?" Bob asked, straightening up. The girl found it hard to give her answer. "See how it's trying to get away," she said at last. "I believe it would rather live a few hours free, in the sunshine, than to be caged for life." "I'll give it some crumbs, anyway," said Bob, and, strewing bread along the path, went back to his more engrossing ducks.