"Geoff, I don't know what to think. Brother, tell me what to think!" she appealed.
"Why, little Meg!" He bent beside her, one arm about her. "What's come?"
"That came!" she said, pointing to the box on the floor. "Just as I was going out this afternoon that came."
Geoff stooped and took off the cover and parted the paper wrappings inside. Below lay a white, soft mass of feathers—it filled the box—a large, white bird with web feet and broad bill, and with the gamy, fishy odour of the wild fowl. He took it from the box and looked at it.
"A goose!" he said wonderingly. "A wild goose!"
"Yes," she said. "That's it—a wild goose!"
"What about it, Margaret?"
"It was shot in Louisiana the day before yesterday."
"Well?"
"An old man shot it—an honest old man I've no doubt—an old negro. He brought it to the old gentleman—one of the fine old Southern gentleman—who had been his master."
"Brought what, Meg?"
