never changed a feather at sight of her. He will sing for her, though;
and sing he does, shaking and trilling and quivering, pouring his
little soul out in melody for joy of the summer day, and of the sweet,
quiet place, and of the child who never scares or startles him, only
smiles, and sings to him in return. They are singing together now, the
child and the bird. It is a very wonderful thing, if there were any
one by to hear. The gray squirrel crouches motionless in the child's
lap, with half-shut eyes; the quiet dead sleep on unmoved: who else
should be near to listen to such music as this?

Nay, but who is this, leaning over the old stone-wall, listening with
keenest interest,--this man with the dark, eager face and bold black
eyes? His eyes are fixed on the child; his face is aglow with wonder
and delight, but with something else too,--some passion which strikes
a jarring note through the harmony of the summer idyl. What is this
man doing here? Why does he eye the blind child so strangely, with
looks of power, almost of possession?

Cease, cease your song, Melody! Fly, bird and tiny beast, to your
shelter in the dark tree-tops; and fly you also, gentlest child, to
the home where is love and protection and tender care! For the charm
is broken, and your paradise is invaded.




CHAPTER VI.

THE SERPENT.