123
heard Georgiana begin to sing to herself behind the curtains.
“Hurry up and fill that cup,” I said to him, savagely. “And that will do this morning. You can go to the mill. The meal's nearly out.”
When he was gone I called, in an undertone: “Georgiana! Come to the window! Please! Oh, Georgiana!”
But the song went on. What was the matter? I could not endure it. There was one way by which perhaps she could be brought. I whistled long and loud again and again. The curtains parted a little space.
“I was merely whistling to the bird,” I said.
“I knew it,” she answered, looking as I had never seen her. “Whenever you speak to him your voice is full of confidence and of love. I believe in it and like to hear it.”
“What do you mean, Georgiana?” I cried, imploringly.
