She seems struggling to speak, but there is only a low gurgle in her throat. Philip stands on the steps. "'Help,'" he says abruptly, calling the dog. "Come." Together the man and beast pass like visions into the night. * * * * * Eleanor crouches away to the far corner of the verandah, her limbs relax, and she huddles herself in a heap on the hard ground, without a cry; without a moan. * * * * * Another day breaks gloriously over the East; in the first rays of sunlight Eleanor stirs. With difficulty she rises from her cramped position, a shudder runs over her frame as she walks unsteadily down the steps, in the direction of the well. The jungle fowl on tree and ground give forth their sharp shrill cries. The bulbul whistles sweet notes like those of a thrush. The golden oriole with its bright yellow plumage whirrs as a flash of sunlight through the trees, and the birds at home are singing. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's When the Birds Begin to Sing, by Winifred Graham