A Fable about Birds.

Mrs. Hodge and Nellie, being left to their own resources, had employed the afternoon in paying a visit to Ethel Roberts, and nothing was wanting to fill Dale's cup of vexation to overflowing, unless it were to have Nellie flying open-mouthed at him, as he grumblingly expressed it, with a tale of the distress in the Doctor's household. Ethel Roberts had the fortitude to bear her troubles, the added fortitude to bear them cheerfully, but not the supreme fortitude which refuses to tell a tale of woe to any ear, however sympathetic. She did not volunteer information, but she did allow it to be dragged out of her, and the barriers of her reserve broke down before Mrs. Hodge's homely consolations and Nellie's sorrowful horror. They were reduced, she admitted, in effect to living on little else than her own wretched income; the practice brought in hardly more than it took out, for, while the rich patients failed, the poor remained; the rent was overdue, bills were unpaid, and the butcher, the milkman, and the coal merchant were growing sulky.

"And while," said Mrs. Hodge, "that poor young creature is pinching, and starving, and crying, the man's thinking of nothing but Nihilists and what not. I'd Nihilist him!"

Dinner was served to Dale with sauce of this sort.

"Can I prevent fools suffering for their folly?" he asked.

"The baby looks so ill," said Nellie, "and Mrs. Roberts is worn to a shadow."

"Did you see Roberts?" asked Philip.

"For a minute," said Nellie, "but he was very cold and disagreeable."

"Thought you were tarred with the same brush as Dale, I suppose?"

"Can't you do anything for 'em, Dale?" asked Mrs. Hodge.

"I can send him a check."

"He'll send it back," remarked Philip.

"I wish he'd get out of the place."

"Yes, he might as well be miserable somewhere else, mightn't he?"

Dale glared at his friend, and relapsed into silence. Nevertheless, in spite of Philip's prediction, he sat down after dinner and wrote to Roberts, saying that he had heard that he was in temporary embarrassment, and urging him to allow Dale to be his banker for the moment; this would, Dale added, be the best way of showing that he bore no malice for Dale's letter. He sent a man with the note, ordering him to wait for an answer.

The answer was not long in coming; the man was back in half an hour, bringing the Doctor's reply:

Three months ago I should have thought it an honor to share my last crust with you, and no shame to ask half of all you had. Now I will not touch a farthing of your money until you come back to us. If your friends pay my wife further visits, I shall be obliged if they will look somewhat less keenly at my household arrangements.

James Roberts.

"There is the snub you have brought on me!" exclaimed Dale angrily, flinging the letter to Nellie. "I might have known better than to listen to your stories."

"Dale, Dale, it was every word true. How selfish he is not to think of his wife!"

"Many people are selfish."

"Is anything the matter, Dale?"

"Oh, I'm infernally worried. I never get any peace."

"Hadn't you a good time skating?"

"No. I'm beginning to hate this place."

"Oh, Dale, I've enjoyed my visit so much!"

"Very glad to hear it, I'm sure."

"You must have seen it; we've stayed so long. I've often told mamma we ought to be going."

Dale lit a cigarette.

"Indeed we have had no mercy on you, Dale; but the country and the rest are so delightful."

"Hum—in some ways."

"But I must be back at work. Mamma thought next Saturday would do."

"As soon as that?" said Dale, with polite surprise.

"Think how long we have been here."

"Oh, don't go on Saturday!"

Nellie's face brightened.

"Don't you want us to?" she asked, with an eager little smile. Dale was going to be kind after all.

"No. Why shouldn't you stay till Monday?"

The face fell, the smile disappeared; but she answered, saving her self-respect:

"Saturday is more convenient for—for arriving in town. I think we had better fix Saturday, Dale."

"As you like. Sorry to lose you, Nell."

He sauntered off to the smoking room to join Philip. When Philip came into the drawing room half an hour later in search of a book, he found Nellie sitting before the fire. He took his stand on the hearthrug, and looked steadily down on her.

"Once upon a time," he said, "there was a very beautiful bird who, as it chanced, grew up with a lot of crows. For a long while he liked the crows, and the crows liked him—very much, some of them. Both he and the crows were pleased when the eagles and all the swell birds admired him, and said nice things about him, and wanted to know him—and the crows who liked him most were most pleased. Presently he did come to know the eagles and the other swell birds, and he liked them very much, and he began to get a little tired of the old crows, and by and by he left their company a good deal. He was a polite bird and a kind bird, and never told them that he didn't want them any more. But they saw he didn't."

There was a little sob from the armchair.

"Whereupon some of them broke their hearts, and others—didn't. The others were wisest, Nellie."

He paused, gazing down at the distressful little heap of crumpled drapery and roughened gleaming hair.

"Much wisest. He was not a bad bird as birds go—but not a bird to break one's heart about, Nellie: what bird is?"

There was another sob. Philip looked despairingly at the ceiling and exclaimed under his breath:

"I wish to God she wouldn't cry!"

He took his book from the mantelpiece where he had laid it and moved toward the door. But he came back again, unable to leave her like that, and walked restlessly about the room, stopping every now and then to stand over her, and wonder what he could do.

Presently he took a feverish little hand in his, and pressed it as it lay limp there.

"The old crows stood by one another, Nellie," he said, and he thought he felt a sudden grip of his hand, coming and timidly in an instant going.

It seemed to comfort her to hold his hand. The sobs ceased, and presently she looked up and said, with a smile:

"I always used to cry at going back to school."

"Going back to work," said Philip, "is one of the few things in the world really worth crying about."

"Yes, isn't it?" she said, unblushingly availing herself of the shelter of his affected cynicism. She was afraid he might go on talking about crows, a topic which had been all very well, and even a little comforting, when she was hidden among the cushions, but would not do now.

"And London is so horrid in winter," she continued. "Are you going back soon?"

"Oh, I shall wait a little and look after Dale."

"Dale never tells one what is happening."

"I'll keep you posted, in case there's a revolution in Denborough, or anything of that sort."

A step was heard outside. With a sudden bound Nellie reached the piano, sat down, and began to play a lively air. Dale came in, looking suspiciously at the pair.

"I thought you'd gone to bed, Nellie."

"Just going. Mr. Hume and I have been talking."

"About the affairs of the nation," said Philip.

"But I'm off now. Good-night, Dale."

Dale looked closely at her.

"What are your eyes red for? Have you been crying?"

"Crying, Dale? What nonsense! I've been roasting them before the fire, that's all; and if they are red, it's not polite to say so, is it, Mr. Hume?"

"Rightly understood, criticism is a compliment, as the reviewers say when they slate you," remarked Philip. "He might not have noticed your eyes at all."

"Inconceivable," said Dale politely, for he was feeling very kindly disposed to this pretty girl, who came when he wanted her, and went when—well, after a reasonably long visit.

"Good-night, Dale. I'm so sorry about—Mr. Roberts, you know."

Dale, having no further use for this grievance, was graciously pleased to let it be forgotten.

"Oh, you couldn't know he'd be such a brute. Good-night, Nellie."

The two men returned to the smoking room. Philip, looking for a piece of paper wherewith to light his pipe, happened to notice a little bundle of proof-sheets lying on the table.

"Ah, the spring bubbling again?" he asked.

Dale nodded.

"My dear fellow, how are the rest of us to get our masterpieces noticed? You are a monopolist."

"It's only a little volume."

"What's it about? May I look?"

"Oh, if you like," answered Dale carelessly; but he kept his eye on his friend.

Philip took up the first sheet, and read the title-page; he smiled, and, turning over, came to the dedication.

"You call it 'Amor PatriÆ?'"

"Yes. Do you like the title?"

"Hum! There was no thought of pleasing me when it was christened, I presume. And you dedicate it——"

"Oh, is that there?"

"Yes, that's there—'To her that shall be named hereafter.'"

Dale poked the fire before he answered.

"Yes," he said, "that's the dedication."

"So I see. Well, I hope she'll like them. It is an enviable privilege to confer immortality."

"I'll confer it on you, if you like."

"Yes, do. It will be less trouble than getting it for myself."

"Under the title of 'The Snarler.'"

Philip stood on the hearthrug and warmed himself.

"My dear Dale," he said, "I do not snarl. A wise author pleases each section of the public in turn. Hitherto you have pleased me and my kind, and Roberts and his kind, and Arthur Angell and his kind—who are, by the way, not worth pleasing, for they expect presentation copies. Now, in this new work, which is, I understand, your tribute to the nation which has the honor to bear you, you will please——" He paused.

"I always write to please myself," said Dale.

"Yourself," continued Philip, "this mysterious lady, and, I think we may add, the Mayor of Market Denborough."

"Go to the devil!" said the poet.