CHAPTER VIII 



THE STORY OF NAN 



IT was the twenty-eighth of June, I remember, and a 

 very hot day, when one of my guests ran into my 

 room with the news that a bird was lying on the 

 brick terrace crying vigorously. 

 "Oh! what is it?" I demanded. 

 "How can I tell? I guess it 's just hatched, it has n't 

 any feathers — hardly." 



"Well, I '11 be right down. Move it out of the sun." 

 The telephone rang that minute, the mail came in, 

 the cook wanted to see me, and I confess I forgot all 

 about the matter. Two hours later I went down to the 

 terrace in a conscience-stricken rush. The birdling 

 was still peeping, lying under the shelter of a geranium 

 leaf on the moist earth. It was about four inches long, 

 the body naked, but wings, head and would-be tail cov- 

 ered with tiny quill-like feathers. 



"Of course it can't live, and I have n't an idea what 



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