There was no question that Hertha Ogilvie was not making a success at
stenography and typewriting at the excellent school which Dick had found
for her. Among the thirty-odd pupils who had entered in February, only
two were as far behind as she. And though her teachers, who liked her
for her good manners and quiet speech, were ready with encouragement,
assuring her that the moment would come when, with unexpected rapidity,
the light of understanding would shine amid the darkness of
insignificant lines and dots and she would forge ahead, she herself did
not believe in the miracle. This was perhaps her greatest
handicap--distrust in her ability blocked her road. An ever recurring
sense of stupidity kept her repeating the same tasks without progress,
until, filled with disgust, she threw her books aside, declaring that
she would give it up and take to sewing again.
This was her mood on the Saturday afternoon following the game of
bridge, when, dropping her work, she went into the park with Bob
Henderson, her next door neighbor and devoted companion. Bob was the
oldest of four children, though but six himself, and when his mother
could spare him from the home tasks that were already piling upon his
small shoulders, he liked best to go with Hertha among the trees to the
lake where every day there was some new interest. This afternoon it was
a brood of ducks that were taking their first bath. And while Hertha sat
on the grass he wandered along the shore, throwing in bits of bread and
sometimes laughing softly to himself.
The afternoon was full of golden lights, the warm sun bringing a feeling
of happy drowsiness. School was forgotten and the southern girl basked
in the languorous fragrance of spring. Life had begun again for the
world. Across from where she sat on a granite stone a little white
butterfly lighted and slowly folded and unfolded its wings. It quivered
on its resting place as though not yet accustomed to flight. The buds on
the azalea were slowly opening. Everywhere life was close to fulfilment
and yet as though waiting for some final word from sun or earth.
"Please come here, Miss Ogilvie," Bob called, running up to her. "Look
at this bird. I bet it's broken its wing."
A white birch hung over the path by the water's edge and beneath it, on
the smooth asphalt, fluttered a little bird, brilliant with black and
orange markings. It hopped away as they approached, but made no flight,
and as they followed they could mark each splotch of black and white and
orange.
"What is it?" Bob asked eagerly.
"I never saw it before," Hertha said. "I think it belongs up in the
treetops."
Bob eyed the broken wing. "It was some boy," he said admiringly, "that
could hit such a little thing with nothing but a stone."
"Was that how it happened?"
"Sure. I've seen the boys throwing stones up the trees, but it ain't
often they bring down a bird."
Making a tremendous effort, the bird flew on to a low branch of the
birch. Amid the young green leaves its dress of orange and black showed
gayer than ever. It reminded Hertha of one of Ellen's children, a little
girl with shining black face and bright black eyes, who used to wear as
a kerchief her mother's bandana. She was like a bird herself, swift of
movement, trilling with song.
"It was a mean thing to do," Hertha cried indignantly as she watched the
warbler flutter and fall to the ground again. "Why couldn't they let it
stay in the tree top? I suppose the boys think it's fun to bring it down
with a stone."
"Sure," said Bob cheerfully.
"Don't you do it," his companion commanded. "Can't you see how it hurts?
It's crippled through no fault of its own."
"What do you think'll happen?" Bob asked, a little anxiously. Hertha's
tone was making an impression on him.
"I'm afraid it will die. Any animal can seize it now."
"I tell you what." Bob's face brightened. "I'll catch it and put it in
our old canary cage. Our bird's dead now, and we can feed this and hear
it sing."
He crouched to make a sudden spring, but Hertha held him back. "Don't!"
she said.
"Why not?" Bob asked, straightening up.
The girl found it hard to give her answer. "See how it's trying to get
away," she said at last. "I believe it would rather live a few hours
free, in the sunshine, than to be caged for life."
"I'll give it some crumbs, anyway," said Bob, and, strewing bread along
the path, went back to his more engrossing ducks.
The bird of the tree tops refused the bread of grain and, making a
tremendous effort, rose to the birch tree again and moved among the
leaves, its black head bobbing about hunting for insects, its free wing
fluttering with pleasure. "What a comfort it is," Hertha thought to
herself, "that it lives only in to-day."
Becoming weary of his ducks, Bob joined his companion where she sat on
the grass, and leaning up against her asked to hear about
Tom-of-the-Woods. Tom was a wonderful boy who lived in the forest,
eating roots and fruit, for he would not kill any living creature. The
berries that he found and the oranges that he plucked from the trees
were finer than any other oranges and berries in the world. Tom made his
house out of palm leaves tied together and set up on shoots of bamboo.
He did not use it much, however, for at night he loved to sit under the
stars listening to the screech owls and the toads and the little
four-footed creatures that came out of their hiding-places when the sun
went down. It was then that he talked with the rabbits and the great
white owl, the wisest bird in the world. Tom went to the city and
purchased a top that he could spin so fast on the sidewalk that it
disappeared. How he got it back he never told, but it was always there
in his pocket whenever he came to town. It was a long, comfortable
story, without plot and with little incident, the kind of story that you
could begin and leave off at your convenience. But before Bob was half
tired of it, some one called out "Hallo," and Dick appeared coming along
the path toward them.
"Glad I found you," he said gaily, and then, turning to the little boy,
"Your mother says it's time for you to be trotting home."
Bob viewed the newcomer suspiciously. It was not his first experience in
having Dick interrupt when he and Miss Ogilvie were enjoying a good
time.
"Very well," said Hertha, rising, "we'll go home together."
This arrangement was not in the least what Dick desired, but he said
nothing and the three walked slowly away from the lake to the park's
entrance where Bob's house could be seen across the broad street.
"Say," Dick whispered, "let the little fellow go and come out rowing
with me."
Bob heard and clutched Hertha's hand tight.
"I'm going on the road Monday," Dick added.
Bob only clutched the harder and tried to drag his friend across the
street.
Realizing the need of strategy, Dick put his hand in his pocket and
pulled out a dime. "Run over and get yourself a soda, sonny," he said;
"I bet you know the way."
Bob's hesitation was short. "Sure," he replied after an infinitesimal
wait, and dropping Hertha's hand dashed across the street. They saw him
enter the friendly drug store and then, at Dick's earnest pleading, they
walked back along the path that they had come.
It was a day for dreaming, for lightly putting the oar in the water to
withdraw it again. On the soft wind, from the bushes, white and purple
and golden, from the new buds of the resinous trees, came a fragrance,
sweet and pungent. Rowing beside the west bank, the boat kept in shadow,
but beyond this restful line of dimmed light the sun danced upon the
water, the ripples streaming with silver and gold. The late blossoming
trees still stood tall, dark, with naked limbs, but the drooping willow
gleamed pale yellow, and the maples and elms were dropping their small
blossoms to stand clothed in summer green. Robins called to one another
across the lake, busy carrying bits of grass and twigs to make their
nests. Her hat off, Hertha sat in the stern of the boat, sometimes
trailing her hand in the water, her head bent as she watched the
trickling drops, again sitting erect gazing among the trees and out to
the sky beyond.
"Thinking about home?" Dick asked, and she nodded and smiled.
"Let's visit the garden," she suggested, when having rowed the length of
the lake they returned to the landing.
There was a riot of flowers in the great stretches of the formal garden,
but the girl leading, they made their way to the pansy beds. Deep,
velvety purple blossoms nodded up at them; soft blues and lavenders,
streaked with deeper blue and purple, touched plants of glowing yellow.
Hertha bent and began to talk to the nodding heads as though they were
children.
"They're more alive," she said to Dick, apologizing for her
childishness, "than any flowers I know."
He entered her conceit. "There's a lot of difference among them, though,
don't you think?" He bent over with her to look closely. "The blue ones
don't look like they were blue at all; but that dark lady down there,
for instance, she hasn't enjoyed her dinner. Perhaps last night she had
an overdose of dew."
"I'm afraid the expression is chronic," Hertha answered gravely.
They wandered on where bushes of spirea grew on either side the
path--"Bridal wreath, don't they call it?" Dick asked timidly--on among
the tall hickory and chestnut trees; then up the hill to the rose
garden, the green buds of the newly trimmed plants beginning to show
touches of color, and down again to the little valley where the
mischievous bronze baby, standing in the water surrounded by his guard
of spouting turtles, clutches a duck that pours out a constant stream of
sparkling drops into the pool below.
"How does any one think of such things?" Dick asked gazing with
admiration at the miniature fountain.
"It seems to me easy enough to think of them," Hertha answered. "But how
does any one make them?"
The sun was low as with reluctant feet they turned homeward. Dick had
been quiet, in touch with the beauty about him, the right companion for
a dreamlike afternoon. But the springtime had its present call to him,
and as they neared the end of their walk he could not forego a word.
They had come upon a sunny strip of path and Hertha, slipping off her
coat, threw it over her arm.
Dick took it from her. "Let me carry it, dear," he said.
It was the first time he had dared thus to speak to her, and his breath
came quick.
Awakening to find her dream was over, Hertha drew away from him.
"I know I have no right to say anything, Hertha," he went on, "I'm poor
still, but I can't go away again without telling you a little of what I
think of every minute of my life."
The broad path had many people upon it, the most of them, like
themselves, on their way home. Hertha looked about as though asking him
to say nothing then, but the young man continued in a low voice:
"I haven't anything to say but what you know and every one else knows
who sees you and me. I love you like I didn't believe any one could love
another. I don't ask for anything but to work for you, hoping some time
that you'll take what I have to give. It just about kills me to see you
worrying about your work or money. It's for a man to do that. Don't
worry, dear," he said the word again, almost in a whisper, "we can walk
along together. Let me carry the things."
"No!" Hertha said in a whisper. "Seems to me like it was meant I should
carry them alone."
But she did not take the coat from him when they reached the house,
letting him take it to her room. He laid it on her bed and at once went
out, without glancing her way, but when he turned to her at dinner where
she sat beside him he could see a troubled look in her eyes. He felt as
though he had stirred the waters, just a little, as he had stirred the
lake with his oar that afternoon.