Sam’s finger hooked into the hole at the top. Off came the flower-pot, and disclosed something flying off with rushing wings, and something confused remaining,—a cluster of grey wings all quill, with gaping yellow mouths here and there opening, a huddling movement always going on in the forlorn heap, as if each were cold, and wanted to be undermost. “Tits, my tits!” said Sam triumphantly; “they’ve built their nest here three years following.” “But how do they get in and out?” “Through the hole. Take care, I’ll show you one.” “Won’t you frighten away the bird?” “Oh dear no! Ox-eyes aren’t like wrens; I go to them every day. See!” and he took up in his hand a creature that could just be seen to be intended for a bird, though the long skinny neck was bare, and the tiny quills of the young wings only showed a little grey sprouting feather, as did the breast some primrose-coloured down. Miss Fosbrook had to part with some favourite cockney notions of the beauty of infant birds, and on the other hand to gain a vivid idea of what is meant by “callow young.” Sam quickly put his nestling back, and showed her the parent. She could hardly believe that the handsome bird in the smooth grey coat and bright straw-coloured waistcoat, with the broad jet-black line down the centre, the great white cheeks edged with black, and the bold knowing look, could be like what the little bits of deformity in the nest would soon become. “Ay, that’s an ox-eye,” said Sam. “You’ll hear them going on peter—peter—peter—all the spring.” But Sam was cut short by a loud and lamentable burst of roaring where they had left the party. Miss Fosbrook hurried back, hearing Hal’s rude laugh as she came nearer, it was Elizabeth, sobbing in the passionate way in which it is not good to see a child cry, and violently shaking off Susan, who was begging her to stop herself before Miss Fosbrook should come. What _was_ the matter? “Oh! Betty’s nonsense.” “Johnnie _did_—” “Johnnie only—” “Now, Hal!” “Tell-tale!” “Cry-baby!” “She only cried that Miss Fosbrook might hear.” So shouted the little Babel, Bessie sobbing resentfully between her words, till Miss Fosbrook, insisting that everybody should be quiet, desired her to tell what had happened. “Johnnie—Johnnie called me a toad.” The others all burst out laughing, and Miss Fosbrook, trying to silence them with a frown, said it was very rude of John, but she saw no reason why a girl of Bessie’s age should act so childish a part. “He’s been teasing me, and so has Anne, all this time!” cried Bessie. “They’ve been at me ever since I came out, pulling me and plaguing me, and—” “Well,” said Susan, “I told you to walk in front of Miss Fosbrook, where they could not.” “I didn’t do anything to her,” said John. “Now, Johnnie!” “He only pulled her frock and poked her ankles,” said Anne pleadingly “Only—and why did you do what she did not like?”