“Ah!” cried Barbara, “I see now what made you think of the poem!”--and she looked down at the throbbing bird in her lap. It opened its dark eyes once more--with a reeling, pitiful look at her, Barbara thought--quivered a little, and lay still. She burst into tears. Richard dropped his work, and made a step toward her. “Never mind,” she said. “One has got to cry _so_ much, and I may as well cry for the bird! I'm all right now, thank you! Please go on. The bird is dead, and I'm glad. I will let it lie a little, and then bury it. If it be anywhere, perhaps it will one day know me, and then it will love me. Please go on with the poem. It will make me forget. I'm not bound to remember, am I--where I'm not to blame, I mean, and cannot help?” “Certainly not!” acquiesced Richard, and began the second part. “I see! I see!” cried Barbara, wiping her eyes. “They were cross with him for killing the bird, not because they loved the beautiful creature, but because it was unlucky to kill him! And then when nothing but good came, they said it was quite right to kill him, and told lies of him, and said he was a bad bird, and brought the fog and mist!--I wonder what's coming to them!--That's not the end, is it? It can't be!” “No; it's not nearly done yet. It's only beginning.” “I'm so glad! Do go on.” She was eager as any child. Coleridge could not have desired a better listener. “I know! _I_ know!” she said presently. “_We_ were caught in a calm as we came home! My father is fond of the sea, and brought us round the Cape in a sailing-vessel. It was horrid. It lasted only three days, but I felt as if I should die. It wasn't long enough, I suppose, to draw out the creeping things.” “Perhaps it wasn't near enough to the equator for them,” answered Richard, and went on:-- “Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young; Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.” “Poor man! And in such weather!” exclaimed Barbara. “And such a huge creature! I see! They thought now the killing of the bird had brought the calm, and they would have their revenge! A bad set, those sailors! People that deserve punishment always want to punish. Do go on.” When the skeleton-ship came, her eyes grew with listening like those of one in a trance. “What a horrid, live dead woman!” she said. “Her whiteness is worse than any blackness. But I wish he had told us what Death was like!” “In the first edition,” returned Richard, much delighted that she missed what constructive symmetry required, “there _is_ a description of Death. I doubt if you would like it, though. You don't like horrid things?” “I do--if they should be horrid, and are horrid enough.” “Coleridge thought afterwards it was better to leave it out!” “Tell it me, anyhow.”