Every day, through the long monotonous hours, the song of
his little guest would come up in snatches to the lonely watcher, and at
evening, when the vesper-bell was ringing and the great grey bats slid
out of their hiding-places in the belfry roof, the bright-eyed bird would
return, twitter a few sleepy notes, and nestle into the arms that were
waiting for him. Those were happy days for the Dark Image. Only the
great bell of the Cathedral rang out daily its mocking message, "After
joy . . . sorrow."
The folk in the verger's lodge noticed a little brown bird flitting about
the Cathedral precincts, and admired its beautiful singing. "But it is a
pity," said they, "that all that warbling should be lost and wasted far
out of hearing up on the parapet." They were poor, but they understood
the principles of political economy. So they caught the bird and put it
in a little wicker cage outside the lodge door.
That night the little songster was missing from its accustomed haunt, and
the Dark Image knew more than ever the bitterness of loneliness. Perhaps
his little friend had been killed by a prowling cat or hurt by a stone.
Perhaps . . . perhaps he had flown elsewhere.
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