She did not like her place at all. The birds in the aviary were nearly all foreign, so she did not know their language; and those she could understand were rude and turbulent, and made the most heartless jokes about the poor Cochin-Chinaman’s yellow trousers. But there was no use in grumbling. The Bishop was determined that she should stay and look after the aviary; he disapproved of vagrants and gipsies, and had settled that she was to be brought up respectably. She could not get away, because she was never allowed to leave the place alone; so she consoled herself by thinking that, as winter was at hand, she would be likely to starve were she still tramping the road; and then she would certainly never see Alfonso again. And so time went by and she lived at the palace, feeding and tending the foreign birds, and cheered by the company of her faithful comrade, who grew fat on the crumbs from the Bishop’s kitchen and took care not to display his yellow trousers within sight of the aviary. Soon it grew bitterly cold. The snow fell, and Christmas came and went; and then, at last, the young New Year grew strong, and birds began to sing and trees to bud. The little yard in which the hut stood was surrounded by an ivy-covered wall with a small iron gate in it, and through the latter she could see the ground slope down to the still, wide stream that passed the palace like a crawling silver snake. The bars of the gate were firm in their places, for she had tried them all and they would not move; they were so closely set that she could not squeeze herself out between them. She would press her face against them, looking out enviously at every passing insect that was free. In the wood over the water squirrels jumped about, or sat up like little begging dogs, with their tails over their heads. The Cochin-Chinaman could fly out of the yard, but what was the use of that when he could not take her with him? She would sit by the gate while he stood on the top of the wall describing to her all the things he could see. One spring afternoon, as they passed their time thus, a sound of music came floating from some distance. It was very faint, but as it drew nearer Maggie sprang up, crying to the cock to fly out and see what it could mean. For the tune was the tune of “The Wind in the Broom.” Nearer and nearer it came. She could faintly hear the words. “Gold broom, with your flowers in bloom,” sang the voice. The cock leaped down, and, running and flying, he rushed along the green banks of the stream as hard as he could. The town was behind him at the far side of the palace, so he was molested by no one; and there, sure enough, coming to meet him at the water-side, was Rhoda with her guitar slung on her shoulder. Oh, how he longed to speak! but, as she could not understand his talk, there was no use in saying anything. But he took her by the skirts and began dragging her along. “You are Maggie’s Cochin-Chinaman!” she cried.