THE CROW-CHILD 157

know it. Her brain was bewildered. She knew not
whether she ate or slept. Only the terrible firing reached
her ears, or that living black cloud came and went with its
ceaseless “ caw.”

At last, during a terrible night of wind and storm, Cora
felt that she must go forth and seek her poor bird.

“Perhaps he is freezing—dying!” she cried, springing
frantically from the bed, and casting her long cloak over
her night-dress.

In a moment, she was trudging barefooted through the
snow. It was so deep she could hardly walk, and the sleet
was driving into her face; still she kept on, though her
numbed feet seemed hardly to belong to her. All the way
she was praying in her heart; promising never, never to
be passionate again, if she only could find her bird — not

tuky the boy, but whatever he might be. She was will-
ing to accept her punishment. Soon a faint cry reached
her ear. With eager haste, she peered into every fold of
the drifted snow. A black object caught her eye. It was
a poor storm-beaten crow, lying there benumbed and stiff.

For Ruky’s sake she folded it closely to her bosom, and
plodded back to the cottage. The fire cast a rosy light on
its glossy wing as she entered, but the poor thing did not
stir, Softly stroking and warming it, she wrapped the
frozen bird in soft flannel and blew into its open mouth.
Soon, to her great relief, it revived, and even swallowed a
few grains of wheat.

Cold and weary, she cast herself upon the bed, still fold-
ing the bird to her heart. “It may be Ruky! It is all I
ask,” she sobbed. “I dare not ask for more.”