he leaned
down towards me. Love was on her face now. But her eyes held
mine with the determination to wrest from them the last truth they
might contain, and her voice trembled with doubt:

"Would you put the red-bird in a cage for me? Would you be willing
to do that for me, Adam?"

At those whimsical, cruel words I shall never be able to reveal
all that I felt--the surprise, the sorrow, the pain. Scenes of
boyhood flashed through my memory. A conscience built up through
years of experience stood close by me with admonition. I saw the
love on her face, the hope with which she hung upon my reply, as
though it would decide everything between us. I did not hesitate;
my hands dropped to my side, the warmth died out of my heart as
out of spent ashes, and I answered her, with cold reproach,

"I--will--not!"

The color died out of her face also. Her eyes still rested on
mine, but now with pitying sadness.

"I feared it," she murmured, audibly, but to herself, and the
curtains fell together.

Four days have passed. Georgiana has cast me off. Her curtains
are closed except when she is not there. I have tried to see her;
she excuses herself. I have written; my letters come back unread.
I have lain in wait for her on the streets; she will not talk with
me. The tie between us has been severed. With her it could never
have been affection.

And for what? I ask myself over and over and over--for what? Was
she jealous of the bird, and did she require that I should put it
out of the way? Sometimes women do that. Did she take that means
of forcing me to a test? Women do that. Did she wish to show
her power over me, demanding the one thing she knew would be the
hardest for me to grant? Women do that. Did she crave the pleasure
of seeing me do wrong to humor her caprice? Women do that. But
not one these things can I even associate with the thought of
Georgiana. I have in every way to have her explain, to explain
myself. She will neither give nor receive an explanation.

I had supposed that her unnatural request would have been the end
of my love, but it has not; that her treatment since would have
fatally stung my pride, but it has not. I understand neither; forgive
both; love her now with that added pain which comes from a man's
discovering that the woman dearest to him must be pardoned--pardoned
as long as he shall live.

Never since have I been able to look at the red-bird with the old
gladness.