penetrating gaze upon the white speck, which rapidly increased in size
as it drew nearer. It was a bird with white wings, clearly defined
against the azure.

Verty selected his best arrow, and placing it on the string, waited
until the air-sailer came within striking distance. Then drawing the
arrow to its head, he let it fly at the bird, whose ruffled breast
presented an excellent mark.

The slender shaft ascended like a flash of light into the air--struck
the bird in full flight; and, tumbling headlong, the fowl fell toward
Verty, who, with hair thrown back, and outstretched arms, ran to catch
it.

It was a white pigeon; the sharp pointed arrow had penetrated and
lodged in one of its wings, and it had paused in its onward career,
like a bark whose slender mast, overladen with canvas, snaps in a
sudden gust.

Verty caught the pigeon, and drew the arrow from its wing, which was
all stained with blood.

"Oh, what large eyes you have!" he said, smiling; "you're a handsome
pigeon. I will not kill you. I will take you home and cure your wing,
and then, if ever I again see Redbud, I will give you to her, my
pretty bird."

Poor Verty sighed, and his eyes drooped as he thought of the girl.

Suddenly, however, a small scroll of yellow paper encircling the