My aunt used to say I was a
strange girl, and I am afraid I am strange and perverse. She used to
say that in my affections I was like no other creature in the world.'
'How should Winifred be like any other creature in the world?' I
said. 'She would not be Winifred if she were. But what did your aunt
mean?'
'When I was quite a little child she noticed that I was neglecting a
favourite mavis which I used to delight to listen to as he warbled
from his wicker cage. She watched me, and found that my attention was
all given to a wounded bird that I had picked up on the Capel Curig
road. "Winnie," she said, "nothing can ever win your love until it
has first won your pity. A bird with a broken wing would be always
more to you than a sound one!"'
'Your aunt was right,' I said, 'as no one should know better than I.
For was it not the new kind of pity shining in those eyes of yours
that revealed to me a new heaven in my loneliness? And when my
brother Frank on that day in the wood stood over us in all the pride
of his boyish strength, do I not remember the words you spoke?'
'What were they? I have quite forgotten them.
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