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ThewoodswerealreadyfilledwithshadowsoneJuneevening，justbefhto’clock，thhtsuillglimmeredfaintlyamorurees.Alittlegirlwasdrivinghomehercolodding，dilatcreatureinherbehavior，butavaluedpanionforallthat.Theyweregoingawayfromwhateverlighttherewas，andstrikihewoods，buttheirfeetwerefamiliarwiththepath，anditwashertheireyescouldseeitornot.
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&hislittlewoods-girlishorror-stritohearaclearwhistlenotveryfaraway.Notabird’souldhaveasortoffrieaboy’swhistle，determined，aaggressive.Sylvialeftthecowtowhateversadfatemightawaither，andsteppeddiscreetlyasideintothebushes，butshewasjusttoolate.Theenemyhaddiscoveredher，ainaverycheerfulandpersuasivetone，“Halloa，littlegirl，howfarisittotheroad?”
andtremblingSylviaainaudibly，“Agood>
&daretolookboldlyatthetallyoungman，whunoverhisshoulder，butshecameoutofherbushandagaihecoalkedalongside.
“Ihavebeenhuntingforsomebirds，”
thestrangersaidkindly，“amyway，andneedafriendverymu’tbeafraid，”
headdedgallantly.“Speakupayournameis，ahinkIdthenightatyourhouse，andgooutguhe”
Sylviawasmorealarmedthanbefore.Wouldnrandmothersiderhermue?Butwhocouldhaveforeseensuatasthis?Itdidobeherfault，andshehungherheadasifthestemofitwerebroken，butmaoanswer“Sylvy，”
withmucheffortwhenherpanionagainaskedhername.
Mrs.Tilleywasstandinginthedoorwaywheriotoview.Thecowgavealoudmoobylanation.
“Yes，you’dbetterspeakupforyourself，youoldtrial!Where’dshetuckedherselfawaythistime，Sylvy?”
ButSylviakeptanawedsilenewbyinstinctthathergrapreheyofthesituatiobemistakirangerforohefarmer-ladsion.
Theyoungmanstoodhisguhedoor，anddroppedalumpygame-bagbesideit;theilleygood-eveniedhiswayfarer’sstory，andaskedifhecouldhaveanight’slodging.
“Putmeanywhereyoulike，”
hesaid.“Imustbeoffearlyinthem，beforeday;butIamveryhungry，indeed.Yougivemesomemilkata’splain.”
“Dearsakes，yes，”
respoess，whoselongslumberinghospitalityseemedtobeeasilyawakened.“Youmightfarebetterifyouwentouttothemainroadamileorso，butyou’reweletowhatwe’vegot.I’llmilkrightoff，andyoumakeyourselfathome.Yousleeponhusksorfeathers，”
sheprraciously.“Iraisedthemallmyself.There’sgeesejustbelowheretowardsthema’sh.Nowsteprouefentleman，Sylvy!”
AndSylviapromptlystepped.Shewasgladtohavesomethingtodo，andshewashungryherself.
ItrisetofindsodfortablealittledwellinginthisNewEnglaheyoungmanhadknownthehorrorsofitsmostprimitivehousekeeping，andthedrearysqualorofthatlevelofsocietywhiotrebelatthepanionshipofhens.Thiswasthebestthriftofanold-fashioead，thoughonsuchasmallscalethatitseemedlikeahermitage.Helisteheoldwoman’squainttalk，hewatchedSylvia’spalefadshinihevergrowihusiasm，ahiswasthebestsupperhehadeatenforamonth，ahenew-madefriendssatdowninthedetherwhilethemooncameup.
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“SoSylvyknowsallaboutbirds，doesshe?”
heexclaimed，ashelookedroulegirlwhosat，verydemurebutinglysleepy，inthemoonlight.“Iammakiionofbirdsmyself.IhavebeenatiteversinceIwasaboy.”
（Mrs.Tilleysmiled.）“TherearetwoorthreeveryrareonesIhavebeenhuntingforthesefiveyears.Imeahemonmyowngroundiftheybefound.”
“Doyoucage’emup?”
askedMrs.Tilleydoubtfully，ihisenthusiastient.
“Ohuffedandpreserved，dozensahem，”
saidtheist，“aorsnaredeveryonemyself.IcaughtaglimpseofawhiteheronafewmilesfromhereonSaturday，andIhavefolloweditinthisdire.Theyhaveneverbeenfoundinthisdistrictatall.Thelittlewhiteheron，itis，”
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