Part 9 (2/2)

She must go somewhere and cry alone, and her steps turned instinctively to the well-known refuge of ”the barn,” an old out-building which the children had turned into a playground of their own; it was otherwise disused, excepting that now and then some trusses of hay or straw were put there, and it was a most splendid place to keep pets in.

A numerous and motley family lived here in cages and hutches of all kinds, generally made out of old packing-cases. There was a large colony of white rats, two dormice named Paul and Silas, a jackdaw, rabbits, and a little yellow owl, not to mention the pigeons who fluttered in and out through the open door at will. They came whirling round Bridget now as she entered and settled on her shoulders and head, and pecked boldly at her shoes expecting to be fed. All the different little creatures in cages roused themselves too, and gave signs that they knew her in their various ways--by small scratching noises, by ruffling of feathers, and tiny squeaks. The jackdaw, who was free, at once came down from the rafters, and, standing before her in slim elegance, raised his blue-grey crest and said ”Jark,” the only word he knew. They all gave their little welcome.

But Bridget could not take any notice of them to-day, her heart was too full, though she felt with a dim sense of comfort that these were people to whom her awkwardness made no difference. Otherwise the world was all against her--Miss Tasker, the dancing-mistress, and now, to crown all, mother! She threw herself down on some trusses of straw at the end of the barn, and the tears which had made her eyes smart so all day flowed freely. It was so unjust! That was what hurt her so. If she had been naughty she would be sorry, that would be different. But she could not feel that she was in fault at all. It was just because she was plain and awkward that they were all unkind to her, so she whispered to herself, and cried on.

The barn was very quiet, only Bridget's sobs mingled with the cooing of the pigeons and the rustling noises in the cages round. One slanting ray from the setting sun lay on the floor, but the corner where Bridget had thrown herself was in dusky shadow.

And presently a strange thing happened.

”Bridget! Bridget!” said a little husky voice.

Bridget raised herself on her elbow, and looked round astonished. She did not know the voice at all; and it sounded m.u.f.fled, as though coming through a heap of feathers.

”Bridget! Bridget!” it said again.

This time it plainly came from the rafters over Bridget's head. She looked up, but there was nothing there except the little yellow owl, who was sitting in his cage, with his eyes very round and bright.

”How wise you look!” said Bridget aloud; ”I wish you could help me.”

What was her astonishment when the owl at once replied, in the same stifled voice:

”What do you want?”

Bridget paused. What _did_ she want? Then she remembered that as the owl could talk, it must certainly be a fairy, and could do anything, so she said:

”I want to be very graceful.”

The owl did not answer immediately, and Bridget kept a watchful eye on her arms and legs, almost expecting them to be changed into models of grace at once. Nothing of the sort happened, however; and the owl sat as though in deep thought. At last it said:

”I can tell you a way, but it is difficult.”

”I don't care how difficult it is,” cried Bridget, now very much excited, ”if you will only tell me what it is I will do it.”

”Try,” said the owl solemnly.

”Try what?” asked Bridget anxiously.

”Try,” repeated the owl, ”nothing more; try.”

Bridget's face fell; she was very much disappointed. Every one had told her that till she was sick of the word. The owl could not be a fairy after all.

”Is that all?” she said. ”I always do that.”

”Always?” asked the owl.

Bridget was silent a moment as she thought of the past week.

”Why, not _quite_ always.”

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