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134 waxen greenness. Where some rotting planks crossed the top of the arbor a blue-jay sat on her coarse nest; and presently the mate flew to her with a worm, and then talked to her in a low voice, as much as saying that they must now leave the place forever. I was thinking how love softens even the voice of this file-throated screamer, when along the garden walk came the rustle of a woman’s clothes, and, springing up, I stood face to face with Georgiana.

“What have you done?” she implored.

“What have you done?” I answered as quickly.

“Oh, Adam, Adam! You have killed it! How could you? How could you?”

“&hellip; Is he dead, Georgiana? Is he dead?. &hellip;”

I forgot everything else, and pulling my hat down over my eyes, turned from her in the helpless shock of silence that came with those irreparable words.