m
I had found in September, and whom I tried to make out as the son
of my last winter's pensioner. At least he has never lived in my
yard before; for when, to test his shyness, I started to raise the
window-sash, at the first noise of it he was gone. My birds are
not so afraid of me. I must get on better terms with this stranger.

Mrs. Walters over for a while afterwards. I told her of my fancy
that this bird was one of last summer's brood, and that he appeared
a trifle larger than any male I had ever seen. She said of course.
Had I not fed the parents all last winter? When she fed her hens,
did they not lay bigger eggs? Did not bigger eggs contain bigger
chicks? Did not bigger chicks become bigger hens, again? According
to Mrs. Walters, a single winter's feeding of hot corn-meal,
scraps of bacon, and pods of red pepper will all but bring about
a variation of species; and so if the assumed rate at which I am
now going were kept up a hundred years, my cedar-trees might be
full of a race of red-birds as large and as fat as geese.

Standing towards sundown at another window, I saw Georgiana sewing
at hers, as I have seen her every day since I got out of bed. Why
should she sew so much? There is a servant also; and they sew,
sew, sew, as if eternal sewing were eternal happiness, eternal
salvation. The first day she sprang up, letting her work roll off
her lap, and waved her handkerchief inside the panes, and smiled
with what looked to me like radiant pleasure that I was well again.
I was weak and began to tremble, and, going back to the fireside,
lay back in my chair with a beating of the heart that was a warning.
Since then she has recognized me by only a quiet kindly smile. Why
has no one ever called her name? I believe Mrs. Walters knows.
She comes nowadays as if to tell something, and goes away with a
struggle that she has not told it. But a secret can no more stay
in the depths of Mrs. Walter's mind than cork at the bottom of
water; some day I shall see this mystery riding on the surface.

XII

Yes, she knew; while unconscious I talked of Georgiana, of being
in love with her. Mrs. Walters added, sadly, that Georgiana
came home in the fall engaged to that New York cousin. Hence the
sewing--he is to marry her in June.

I am _not_ in love with her. It is now four weeks since hearing
this conventional fiction, and every day I have been perfectly
able to repeat: "I am _not_ in love with Geor