d "pouch" not only on
Hoodie's finger but on her shoulder, her head--anywhere she chose to
place it. And in an instant, at the sound of her call, it would fly to
her. Every morning it was her first thought, every night her last. And
night and morning when she said her prayers, she never forgot to thank
God for being "_so_ kind as to send birdie back again," and to beg Him
to keep birdie safe and well.

One evening--how it happened I cannot tell,--it was very hot and sultry
weather, with thunder about, and at such times people are careless about
closing doors and windows--one evening, by some mischance which no one
ever could explain, the window of "birdie's room," as it had come to be
called, was either left open, or flew open in some way. Hoodie was sure
she had closed it when she went to bid her pet good night, but it was
what is called a lattice window, and these are apt to fly open unless
very firmly shut. Birdie was safe in his cage however, and the door of
_that_ was fortunately--even when you hear what happened, children, you
will agree with me that that part of it _was_ fortunate--quite fastened.
Early next morning, one of the servants who slept in an attic above the
ante-room, heard a noise below. She was a kind-hearted girl, and her
first thought was of Miss Hoodie's bird. She got up at once, and
hurrying down-stairs--it was not so very early after all, nearly six
o'clock--ran to the ante-room. As she opened the door, to her horror a
great big strange cat jumped out of the window.

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Lucy, "can he have got at birdie?"

The cage was not to be seen--but in another moment Lucy spied it on the
floor, knocked down off the table by the cruel cat. He had not got at
birdie--birdie lay in one corner, quite still as if dead, and yet when
Lucy with trembling fingers unfastened the cage door and tenderly lifted
out his little occupant, she could see no injury, not the slightest
scratch.

"His heart's beating still," she said, "perhaps it's only the fright of
the fall," and she was turning to the window to examine birdie more
closely, when a sound behind her made her start, and turning round she
saw in the doorway the bird's little mistress, poor Hoodie herself. She
was in her nightgown only--she had run from her room with her little
bare feet, having heard Lucy passing down-stairs, with an instinct of
fear that some evil had befallen her pet.

"Lucy, Lucy," she cried, "what is the matter? It is