He was such a little thing. Two or three months might seem a lifetime to
him. He might not remember me so long. I was not a real robin. I was
only a human being. I said a great many things to him--wondering if he
would even be in the garden when I came back. I went away wondering.

When I returned from the world of winter sports, of mountain snows, of
tobogganing and skis I felt as if I had been absent a long time. There
had been snow even in Kent and the park and gardens were white. I
arrived in the evening. The next morning I threw on my red frieze garden
cloak and went down the flagged terrace and the Long Walk through the
walled gardens to the beloved place where the rose bushes stood dark and
slender and leafless among the whiteness. I went to my own tree and
stood under it and called.

"Are you gone," I said in my heart; "are you gone, little Soul? Shall I
never see you again?"

After the call I waited--and I had never waited before. The roses were
gone and he was not in the rose-world. I called again. The call was
sometimes a soft whistle as near a robin sound as I could make it--
sometimes it was a chirp--sometimes it was a quick clear repetition of
"Sweet! Sweet! Sweetie"--which I fancied he liked best. I made one
after the other--and then--something scarlet flashed across the lawn,
across the rose-walk--over the wall and he was there. He had not
forgotten, it had not been too long, he alighted on the snowy brown
grass at my feet.

Then I knew he was a little Soul and not only a bird and the real
parting which must come in a few weeks' time loomed up before me a