and lets her fly; and what good can the poor bird do after that, you know, except pine and die in the first heather-cow or whin-bush she can crawl into?"
"Right, Henry—right, very right, said Lucy, mournfully, holding the boy fast by the hand, after she had given him the wire that he wanted; "but there are more riflers in the world than your falcon, and more wounded birds that seek but to die in quiet, than can find neither brake nor whin-bush to hide their heads in."
"Ah! that's some speech out of your romances," said the boy; "and Sholto says they have turned your head; but I hear Norman whistling to the hawk—I must go fasten on the jesses."
And he scampered away with the thoughtless gaiety of boyhood, leaving his sister to the bitterness of her own reflections.
"It is decreed," she said, "that every living creature, even those who owe me most kindness, are to shun me, and leave me to
