letter. It was a delightful place with green parrots on its chintzes and a real green parrot on a perch. A lacquered table or two in black and gold and a mirror framed in lacquer gave a modifying touch to the brightness. There was a shallow bowl of goldfish, and another bowl held narcissus.
The real parrot said, "Hello." Her name was Dickory, and she liked company.
Hildegarde stopped for a moment by the perch. "Hello," she responded and scratched Dickory's head.
Dickory gave a little chuckling murmur. She was quite content. Life in Miss Anne's sun-room had its monotonies. But it was, in the main, safe. For a philosophic parrot it was, perhaps, more satisfying than a native jungle. No enemies lurked, there were no alarms.
Hildegarde sat down on one of the chintz sofas and took off her hat. It was a lovely hat. She put it on again, and peeped into the mirror. Then, with it still on her head, she began to read Crispin's letter.
And as she read she forgot the lovely hat. She forgot all the frivolities that had been in her mind that morning. She forgot Bob Gresham and the excitement of his pursuit, she forgot everything but the words that Crispin had written, and the spell they cast upon her.
"I had to write. I've just come in from a walk. The wind was blowing so that I had to struggle against it, and at last I stopped and got in the shelter of a big tree, and watched it streaming by—all the leaves flying and the clouds racing. And then, suddenly, just as if it were real, I saw you, Hildegarde. I wonder if you