Whether it was from an instinctive feeling, that his father considered
himself the cause of his lameness and generally invalided condition, or
whether the latent buoyancy of his nature asserted itself above all the
privations which the accident had brought upon him, or whether both of
these causes were at work within him, certain it is that Piers was the
most cheerful and most uncomplaining member of the squire's household,
and never allowed any one to pity him, or to treat him as an object of
compassion. Joyce was right when she said that no one was happier than
Piers. Every bird and insect had a charm for him, and were his friends
and companions. Books of natural history were rare; but Bewick's Birds
sufficed for Piers' needs. The "Natural History of Selborne" and old
Isaak Walton's "Angler" were also amongst the boy's scanty library, and
keen perception and acute observation supplied the place of extraneous
help; and Piers was content.

The cloud soon cleared from Joyce's face as a well-known whistle was
heard from the copse, and Joyce answered it with a clear note of
welcome:

"Here, Piers."

Then the quick, even thud of crutches, and Piers came in sight.

In a moment Joyce was springing down the grassy hill-side, and, with a
hardly perceptible touch on her brother's shoulder, she joined him as he
came up.

"I say, Joyce, if you go to Wells to-day with father, will you take this
little sparrow-hawk to old Plume's to be stuffed? Here, rummage in my
pocket, left-hand side--there he is! He is a perfect specimen, and a
pretty rare one. The stable-boy found him lying on his back under the
dove-cot. Perhaps he got the worst of it in a fight. Anyhow, he is dead,
and I have a nice nook for him in my big case."

"Poor dear little birdie," Joyce said, stroking the soft feathers. "Oh!
Piers, why must everything die? It seems so hard. And this is the
puzzle, that we--you and I--may die to-day, next week, any day; and yet
we don't really behave as if we believed it. I feel on a morning like
this, for instance, so full of life, it is so delicious to live, and as
if I never could die. It is so beautiful to be living, so sad to be
dead! To think, Piers, of this little bird singing sweetly----"

"Sparrow-hawks don't sing very sweetly; they chirrup and whistle," Piers
interrupted.

"Ah, well, he thought he sang sweetly, and so did his mother; so it came
to the same thing. Poor little sweet." And Joyce held the little
lifel