"Oh, wait! wait!" she cried, "Wait until I can do it--" her lips
pursed themselves delicately and a second later the lilting trill of
her lovely whistle took up the refrain of Maitre Guedron's song.

She stretched out her young hands toward the woods. The tardy tree
tops were budding at last, their lovely bronze and red and tender
green shining in the morning light.

"'In the spring forests,'" she cried, "'you must find your fun'--are
those the words of the song, Margot?--Oh, look, look!" she pointed
joyously to a blackbird on top the swaying maple outside her window.
He whistled--she whistled, saucily back.

"Oh!" sighed Margot. "It is good to be young. It is good--go back to
your bed, little one, I'll bring your breakfast."

But Felicia couldn't go back to bed. She hobbled delightedly from
window to window, staring out at the open space in front of the house,
with its descending terraces and the gray jungle of underbrush that
hid the edge of the clearing. She turned eagerly when Margot entered
with a tray. She was bubbling with joy.

"Is Maman comfortable this morning?" she was chattering. "Will she be
in the garden? Where is the garden? I've looked and I can't see it--or
is she in her bed yet? And is it up-stairs?"

Margot's hands trembled. She put the tray down on the bedside table
and pulled the girl across the room and coaxed her into the bed,
rubbing the small bandaged foot, cuddling the quilts about her, as she
tucked the pillows. "So many questions!" she evaded. "Eat your