pigeon's neck, and concealed before by the ruffled plumage, caught his
eye.

"Paper! and writing on it!" he said; "why, this is somebody's
pet-pigeon I have shot!"

And tearing off the scroll, Verty read these words, written in a
delicate, running-hand:

"_I am Miss Redbud's pigeon; and Fanny gave me to her_!" Verty
remained for a moment motionless--his eyes expanded till they
resembled two rising moons;--"I am Miss Redbud's pigeon!" Then Redbud
was somewhere in the neighborhood of the town--she had not gone far
out into the wide, unknown world--this pigeon might direct him;--Verty
found a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, like so many deer
in a herd, jostling each other, and entangling their horns.

Surely, it would not be wrong for him to embrace this chance of
discovering Redbud's residence--a chance which seemed to have been
afforded him by some unseen power. Why should he not keep the bird
until its wing was healed, and then observe the direction of its
flight? Why not thus find the abode of one in whose society so much of
his happiness consisted? Was there any thing wrong in it--would any
one blame him?

These were the questions which Verty asked himself, standing in the
October sunshine, and holding the wounded pigeon to his breast. And
the conclusion was ere long reached. He decided, to his own perfect
satisfaction, that he had the full right to do as he wished; and then
he re-entered the office.