When the high banks of the cut shut off Lammy from Bird’s sight, she followed her uncle into the car, vainly trying to blink back her tears. He, however, did not notice them; but, putting her valise on a seat, told her she had better sit next to the window so that she could amuse herself by looking out, as it would be two hours before they changed cars at New Haven, and then, taking another seat for himself, pulled his hat over his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

At first the poor child was content to sit quite still and rest, trying to realize who and where she was. The changes of the past two weeks had been so sudden that she did not yet fully realize them. Beginning with the day when her father, all full of hope, had been soaked by the rain in walking back from Northboro, where he had gone to buy materials for beginning his work for the wall-paper man, and caught the deadly cold, until now when she was leaving the only friends she had ever known, seemed either a whole lifetime or a dream from which she must awake.

But as the train flew on and the familiar places one by one were lost in the distance, little by little the bare cold truth came to her. Not only was she going to a strange place to live among strangers, but the hope that had comforted her the previous night had been swept away when her uncle had refused to let her bring her paint-box, and she knew by the contemptuous way he spoke that he was even more set against her father’s work than their farming neighbours had been.

“Never mind,” thought the brave, lonely little heart, “I simply must learn somehow, and perhaps my aunt and cousins may be different and help me to persuade Uncle John to let me go on with drawing at the school he sends me to, for I heard him tell Mrs. Lane that I should go to school.” Then Bird began to imagine what the aunt and cousins would be like, and what sort of a house they would live in. She thought the house would be brick or stone like some in Northboro, and she did not expect that there would be a very big garden, perhaps only at the back with a little strip at the sides and in front, but then that would hold enough flowers for her to draw so that she need not forget the way in which Terry had taught her to do it from life, and even if she had no paints and only bits of paper and a pencil, she could work a little out of the way up in her room so as not to annoy her uncle and yet not quite give up. That she was determined she would never do, for Bird had, in addition to a talent that was in every way greater than her father’s, something that came from her mother’s family and that he had wholly lacked,—perseverance, a thing that people are apt to call obstinacy when they do not sympathize with its object.

So busy was she with castle-building that she was quite surprised when the brakeman called: “New Haven! Last stop. Change cars for New York and Boston. Passengers all out!” and her uncle jumped up, flushed and stupid with sleep and bundled her out of the train into the station restaurant “to snatch a bite of dinner” before they went on.

Now Bird, being a perfectly healthy child, even though overwrought and tired, was hungry and gladly climbed up on one of the high stools that flanked the lunch counter, while her uncle gathered a sandwich, two enormous doughnuts, and a quarter of a mince pie on one plate and pushed it toward her saying: “Tea or coffee? You’d better fill up snug, for we won’t be home until well after dinnertime,” then John O’More proceeded to cool his own coffee by pouring it from cup to saucer and back again with much noise and slopping.

“Please, I’d rather have milk,” answered Bird, rescuing the sandwich from under the pie and making a great effort not to stare at her uncle, who had begun by stuffing half a doughnut into his mouth and pouring the larger part of a cup of coffee after it before he swallowed, so that his cheeks bulged, his eyes seemed about to pop from their sockets, and beads of sweat stood on his forehead, while the next moment he was shovelling up great mouthsful of baked beans and ramming them down with cucumber pickles, very much as she had seen Lammy charging his father’s old muzzle-loading shot-gun when going to hunt woodchucks.

Though sometimes the food at home had not been any too plentiful, Bird’s parents had always been particular about her manners at table. She had had their example before her and was naturally dainty in her own ways, so that her uncle’s gorging gave her another shock, and unconsciously she began to pick at her food like a veritable feathered bird.

“The country ain’t what it’s cracked up to be,” remarked O’More, when he was able to speak. “I thought country girls was always fat and rosy and ate hearty. Just wait until you get to New York and see my kids stoke in the vittles; it’ll learn you what it means to eat right.”

“Express train for New York, stopping at Bridgeport and Stamford only,” called a man through the open door.

“Come along,” shouted O’More, wedging in another doughnut, throwing the pay to the waiter and seizing a handful of toothpicks from a glass on the counter, and before Bird had but half finished the sandwich and milk, she found herself on the train again.

The second part of the journey passed more cheerfully, for all along at the east side of the road were beautiful glimpses of the Sound and silvery creeks and inlets came up to the track itself.

Bird had never before seen the sea, or any river greater than the mill stream, and she exclaimed in delight.

“Like the looks of salt water, do you? Then you’re going to an A 1 place to see it. New York’s an island, and you only have to go to the edge anywhere to see water all round, not forsaken lookin’ empty water like this either, but full of ships and boats and push. Down at the far end of the town is Battery Park, smash on to the water, and there’s sea air and seats in it and music summer nights, along with a building full of live swimmin’ fishes that little Billy’s crazed over goin’ to see. Oh, you’ll find sport in the city for sure.”

“Who is little Billy?” asked Bird, feeling that she was called upon to say something, and now realizing that she knew nothing about the cousins she was to meet.

“Little Billy? Oh, he’s the youngest of the four boys. Tom, he’s the eldest, and a wild hawk; he’s got a rovin’ job, and he seldom turns up lest he’s in trouble, but for all that his mother’s crazed after him. Jack, he’s next, seventeen, and fine and sleek and smart with the tongue, and keeps the clean coat of a gentleman; he’s in a clerking job, but he goes to night school, and he’ll be somebody. Larry’s fifteen, and he’s just quit school and got a place helping a trainer on the race-track; he’s minded to make money quick, and thinks that’s the road, which I don’t. Then little Billy,—he’s turning six, and he’s worth more’n the whole lot together to me, if he is only a four-year size and hops with a crutch. Ah, but he’s got the head for thinkin’, and he’s every way off from the rest of us, pale and yellow-haired, while the others are coloured like sloes and crows’ wings in the eyes and hair.”

As O’More spoke his whole face softened and lightened up, and it was plain to see that little Billy filled the soft spot that is in every heart if people only have the eyes to see it.

“Until little Billy was turned three he was as pretty as an angel,” he continued, “and sturdy as any other child. Then come a terrible hot summer,—oh, I tell you it was fierce; you couldn’t draw a breath in the rooms, and so the missis she fixed a bed for Billy out on the fire-escape and used to take him there to sleep.”

Bird was just about to ask what sort of a place a fire-escape was, for this was the second time her uncle had mentioned it that day having said that if she had a dog, it would likely fall from it, but he talked so quickly that she forgot again.

“As luck had it, one night the wind come up cool, and, the woman bein’ dead tired, never woke up to notice it, and in the morning little Billy set up a terrible cry, for when he tried to get up he couldn’t, for the wind had checked the sweat and stiffened his left leg, as it were. Of course we had a big time and had in full a dozen doctors, and some said one thing and some another, but they all give it the one name ‘the infant paralysis.’

“The doctors they wanted him to go to the ’ospital and have the leg shut into a frame and all that, but I said ’twas a shame to torment him, and I’d have him let be till he could say for himself.

“The woman takes him awful hard, though, as if he was a reproach to her for not wakin’ up, which is no sense, for what be’s to be, be’s—that’s all,” which shiftless argument Bird afterward found was her uncle’s answer to many things that could have been bettered.

“I hope Billy will like me,” said Bird, half to herself after a few minutes’ silence; “somehow I think I like him already.”

“If you do that and act well by him, I buy you a hat with the longest feather on Broadway for your Christmas,” said O’More, grasping her slender fingers and almost crushing them in his burst of enthusiasm. “But whist a minute, girl, for we’re most home now. If the woman,—I mean my missis, your Aunt Rosy,—is offish just at the start, don’t get down-hearted, for you see as she don’t expect I’m bringing you, she may be—well—a trifle startled like. She’ll soon settle down and take what be’s to be straight enough,” and with this rather discouraging remark the train crossed the Harlem River and entered the long tunnel that is apt to cast a gloom over every one’s first entrance to New York, even when they are bent on pleasure and not sad and lonely.

“We’re in now,” said O’More in a few minutes, as the echo of the close walls ceased and the train slid across a maze of tracks into an immense building with a glass roof like a greenhouse.

“Grand Central Station—all out,” called a brakeman, and Bird found herself part of a crowd of men, women, children, and red-capped porters moving toward a paved street, full of carriages, wagons, trucks, electric cars, besides many sort of vehicles that she had never seen before, coming, going, dashing here and there in confusion, while on every side there was a wall of houses, and below the earth was upturned and trenched, not a bit of grass or tree to be seen anywhere, and the sky, oh, so far away and small. Bird almost fell as she stumbled blindly along toward a trolley car after the uncle, for what could seem more unreal to this little wild thrush from the country lane, with song in her throat, and love of beauty and colour born in her heart, than Forty-second Street in the middle of the first warm summer afternoon?

******

The car they boarded went through another short tunnel, and on every side could be heard the noise of hammers or drilling in the rock.

“Is this a stone quarry?” asked Bird, innocently, not understanding, and wondering why the near-by passengers smiled as her uncle replied: “Lord bless yer! no; it’s the subway, a road below ground they’re building to let out folks from where they work to where there’s room to live; there’s such push here below town there’s little room for sitting, let alone sleeping. Oh, but it’s a fine city is New York, all the same.”

Next a broad avenue with a jumble of old, low shops and fine new buildings side by side; still Bird looked anxiously out for some place where it seemed possible that people might live and found none.

“Here’s 2—th Street where we land,” said O’More, presently looking up, and when the car had stopped, Bird found herself walking along a sidewalk between another wall of buildings without gardens, while the heat of the first warm day rising from the pavement made her dizzy, and she asked, “Is it far from here to where you live, Uncle John?”

“No, right close by, only a few steps farther. We’re facing east now and down yonder half a dozen blocks is the river, the same as we crossed coming in saving a turn in it.

“Getting tired, ain’t yer? Well, it’s been a long day for us, and I’m mighty glad to be gettin’ to a homelike place myself.”

“Do you live right by the water, and is there any garden?” Bird continued, a feeling of nameless dread creeping over her as she saw nothing but buildings still closing in on all sides; even a blacksmith’s shop, from which a spirited pair of horses were coming with newly shod polished hoofs, seemed strange and out of place. Then there were more poor looking buildings, and a great stable with many men standing about and horses being constantly driven in and out to show the people who waited on the curbstone.

“By the river, and do I have a garden,” he echoed, laughing heartily. “Do you think I’m one o’ the millionnaires you read about in the papers, my girl? Do I keep an automobile and eat at the Waldorf-Astoria?” and then, seeing that Bird could not understand the comparison, he patted her good-naturedly on the shoulder.

As they passed the stable quite a number of the men spoke to her uncle, but instead of resenting it as she expected, he joked and laughed and seemed very glad to see them.

“It’s called the ‘Horse’s Head,’ and it’s out of there my job is,” he said to Bird, pointing over his shoulder at the stable, “for half the time I’m over the country from Kentucky to Canada picking up horses, and the other half of the time I’m helping to sell them out again, so I live as near by as may be for convenience.”

At this Bird’s heart sunk still farther, for in the prim New England town where she was born and bred a Puritan, a horse-dealer meant either some oversharp farmer who could outwit his neighbours or a roving fellow, half gypsy, half tramp, of very ill repute, who went about from town to town buying and selling animals who mostly had something the matter with them that had to be concealed by lying.

John O’More, striding on ahead, did not notice her expression, nor would he have understood if he had read her thoughts, for he was perfectly satisfied with himself and everything else in his surroundings, except the fact of little Billy’s lameness, and for a man of his class he was roughly honest and good-hearted.

“Here’s where!” he said at last, turning into the doorway of a tall building with one door and many windows. The square vestibule was dusty and had a ragged mat in the centre, while on one side were ten letter-boxes in a double row, with a bell knob and speaking-tube, as O’More explained, over each.

“Is this your house? It seems pretty big,” said Bird, wearily.

“One floor of it is,” he answered, laughing again; “it’s what’s called ‘a flat house,’ because each tenant lives flat on one floor, with conveniences at hand and no water to carry, which beats the country all out,” he added slyly. “See, I’ll but touch the bell and the door ’ll open itself.”

And he suited the action to the word, the door opening to reveal a narrow, dark hall with a flight of steep stairs covered with a shabby red carpet.

As Bird groped her way up, one, two, three flights, fairly gasping for breath in the close, hot place, she stumbled against groups of children who were sitting or playing school on the stairs.

“It’s lighter near the top; that’s why I choose it,” called her uncle, himself puffing and blowing as he climbed. “Here we are,” and he pushed open a door into an inner hall, and then another into a sort of sitting room where a tall, red-haired woman, clad in a collarless calico sack was sewing on a machine, while a pile of showy summer silks and muslins was lying on a chair beside her.

“Hello, Rosie, old woman; here’s Bird O’More, Terry’s orphan, that I brought back to stop a bit until we see where we’re at,” and he gave his wife a knowing wink as much as to say, “I know it’s sudden on you, but let her down as easy as you can.”

The “old woman,” who was perhaps forty, or at most forty-five, glanced up, and then, either not understanding or pretending not to, her face flushed as she jerked out, her eyes flashing, “Well, if you ain’t the aggravatment of men, John O’More, to bring company just when I’ve got Mame Callahan’s trou-sew to finish, and she gettin’ married next week, and Billy bein’ that cantankerous with cryin’ to go over to the park or down to see them fishes that my head’s ready to split,” she whimpered.

With all his will the man cowered before her tongue, and in spite of her own pain Bird’s womanly little heart pitied him. She saw the piled-up garments and knew at once that her aunt was a dressmaker, and her gentle breeding led her to say the one thing that could have averted an explosion.

“Aunt Rose, I could take Billy to see the fish or something if you’ll tell me the way.”

“That’s what I figured on when I brought her,” said O’More, greatly relieved, and quickly following the lead; “I knew you’d often spoke of gettin’ a girl from the Sisters, and that’s why I brought Bird instead of leavin’ her to slave fer strangers,” he stammered.

“Humph,” answered Mrs. O’More, at least somewhat pacified, “Billy’s fastened in his chair on the fire-escape; she’d better go there and sit with him a while until it’s supper-time. It’s too late for them to go traipsing around the streets to-night. Can you do anything useful?” she said, fixing her sharp, greenish eyes on Bird, who tried to gather her wits together as she answered, “I can make coffee, and toast, and little biscuits, and two kinds of cake, and—” then she hesitated and stopped, for she was going to say “do fractions, write, read French a little, and draw and paint,” but she felt as if these last items would count against her.

“Humph,” said her aunt again, this time more emphatically, “I guess you done well to bring her, Johnny. Turned thirteen, you say. Of course she’ll have to make a show of goin’ to school for another year on account of the law, but they can’t ask it before the fall term. I suppose she’ll have to sleep on this parlour lounge, though; there’s no other place.”

John O’More was now beaming as he led Bird through a couple of dark bedrooms toward the kitchen, where the mysterious “fire-escape” seemed to be located.

Going to an open back window he looked out, motioning Bird to follow. What she saw was a small platform, about three feet wide and ten feet long, surrounded by an iron railing; one end was heaped with a litter of boxes and broken flowerpots that partly hid a trap door from which a ladder led to the balcony belonging to the floor below. At the other end, fastened in a baby’s chair by the tray in front, sat a dear little fellow with great blue eyes and a curved, sensitive mouth, while tears were making rivers of mud on his pale cheeks as he sobbed softly to himself, “I want to go; oh, I want to get out and see the fishes.”

“So you shall,” said O’More, undoing the barrier and lifting the child on his strong arm while he tried awkwardly to wipe his face.

“Let me,” said Bird, wetting her handkerchief at the kitchen sink and gently bathing eyes, nose, and mouth carefully, as Mrs. Lane had bathed hers—only a day ago, was it? It seemed a lifetime.

“Who are you?” said Billy, gazing at Bird over his father’s shoulder, as he wound his little arms around the thick neck.

“She’s your cousin Bird, come from the country to play with Billy and take him to see the fishes. Go out there on the platform with him a spell till the heat dies down; the doctor says he’s to get plenty of air you see.”

“Where do you get the air here?” asked Bird, wonderingly, looking at the paved yards filled with rubbish, the tall clothes poles, and the backs of the other buildings where more fire-escapes clung like dusty cobwebs.

“Air? Oh, out here and down in the street mostly if there’s no time fer going across to any o’ the parks. Get a bit acquainted now, youngsters, for I’ve got to report at the stable before supper,” said O’More, putting Billy back into his chair and preparing to leave, wiping the sweat from his face as if he had thus put the whole matter of Bird from him.

For a few minutes the pair were silent. “Is your name Bird?” asked Billy, eying her solemnly, and, upon her nodding “Yes,” he rambled on, “There’s a yellow bird in a cage downstairs at Mrs. Callahan’s—it’s name is Canary and it can sing. Can you sing?”

“Yes; that is, I used to last week,” she said uncertainly, the tears running between her fingers that she held before her face, for in the past ten minutes her last hope had fled. No room where she could work alone, not even a back-yard garden or a leaf to pick, and the bars of the fire-escape seemed to be closing in like a cage.

“Now you’re crying, too,” said Billy, prying open her hands with his thin fingers, while his lip quivered; “do you want to get out and see the fishes too?”

“Yes, Billy, I do; but we can’t go just now, so we must play we are birds in a cage like the one downstairs,” smiling through her tears. “I’ll sing for you,” and she began in a low voice a song that Terry had taught her:—

When she finished, the little arms stole around her neck also, and Billy, his face all smiles, said, “That bird’s me, cause I’ve only got one good leg, and I’m going to have you for my canary, only,” looking at her gown and hair, “you’re more black than yellow,” and giving her a feeble squeeze, “and some day you’ll get me out to see the fishes, won’t you?”

At his baby caress Love lit a new lamp in her dark path and Hope stole back and led the way as she hugged Billy close and said, “Yes, some day we’ll surely get out of the cage together and fly far away.”