And what a song it was!—­so full of passionate entreaty, of tender pleading, of haunting sweetness, that, as she listened, the bright drop quivering upon her lashes, fell and was succeeded by another, and another.  Nor did she attempt to check them, or wipe them away, only she sat and listened with her heavy head pillowed against the great tree, while the Blackbird, glancing down at her every now and then with critical eye to mark the effect of some particularly difficult passage, piped surely as he had never done before, until the listener’s proud face sank lower and lower, and was, at last, hidden in her hands.  Seeing which, the Black-bird, like the true artist he was, fearing an anti-climax, very presently ended his song with a long-drawn, plaintive note.

But Anthea sat there with her proud head bowed low, long after he had retired for the night.  And the sun went down, and the shadows came creeping stealthily about her, and the moon began to rise, big and yellow, over the up-land; but Anthea still sat there with her head, once more resting wearily against “King Arthur,” watching the deepening shadows until she was roused by Small Porges’ hand upon hers and his voice saying: 

“Why,—­I do believe you’re crying, Auntie Anthea, an’ why are you here—­all alone, an’ by yourself?”

“I was listening to the Black-bird, dear,—­I never heard him sing quite so—­beautifully, before.”

“But black-birds don’t make people cry,—­an’ I know you’ve been crying—­’cause you sound—­all quivery, you know.”

“Do I, Georgy?”

“Yes,—­is it ’cause you feel—­lonely?”

“Yes dear.”

“You’ve cried an awful lot, lately, Auntie Anthea.”

“Have I, dear?”

“Yes,—­an’ it—­worries me, you know.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been a great responsibility to you, Georgy dear,” said she with a rueful little laugh.

“‘Fraid you have; but I don’ mind the ’sponsibility,—­’I’ll always take care of you, you know!” nodded Small Porges, sitting down, the better to get his arm protectingly about her, while Anthea stooped to kiss the top of his curly head.  “I promised my Uncle Porges I’d always take care of you, an’ so I will!”

“Yes, dear.”

“Uncle Porges told me—­”

“Never mind, dear,—­don’ let’s talk of—­him.”

“Do you still—­hate him, then, Auntie Anthea?”

“Hush, dear!—­it’s very wrong to—­hate people.”

“Yes, a course it is!  Then—­perhaps, if you don’t hate him any more—­you like him a bit,—­jest a—­teeny bit, you know?”

“Why—­there’s the clock striking half-past eight, Georgy!”

“Yes, I hear it,—­but—­do you,—­the teeniest bit?  Oh! can’t you like him jest a bit—­for my sake, Auntie Anthea?  I’m always trying to please you,—­an’ I found you the fortune, you know, so now I want you to please me,—­an’ tell me you like him—­for my sake.”

“But—­Oh Georgy dear!—­you don’t understand.”