And there sat Avrillia, in a mist of her
bright, wild hair, so intent upon her writing that she did not see
them, or hear them speak.
"Sh--sh--" said Pirlaps, in a low tone, when he saw how absorbed she
was. "We'll wait till she finishes that one. Why didn't I bring my
step?"
As he didn't have it, however, he leaned against the alabaster wall,
and waited patiently; though Sara, it must be confessed, was quite
restless. After what seemed to her a very long time, Avrillia drew a
deep breath and shook back her golden hair, and moving like a lost
bird to the balustrade, leaned far out and let her new poem flutter
from her hand. For another long time she did not move, straining her
eyes down into the abyss. At last she straightened up with a long sigh,
and, seeing them, smiled.
"Did it stick?" asked Pirlaps, eagerly.
"No," was all Avrillia said, but her voice made Sara's heart quiver,
for in the sound of it she seemed to hear the temple-bells, and the
fairy hand-organ she had heard in the steep street at Zinariola, and
the drowsy tinkle of the fountain in the Butterfly Palace, and the
little Laughs that leaped about the mountain, and the morning and
evening sheep-bells, all gathered together into one sound that seemed
to say that presently she would have to say good-by to Avrillia.
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