"She killed her twenty-first bird straight; it was a handsome cup, too." And after a silence, "So you didn't love her any more, Mr.
Siward ?"--mockingly sweet.
They laughed, and at the sound of laughter the tall-stemmed alders echoed with the rushing roar of a cock-grouse thundering skyward.

Crack! Crack! Whirling over and over through a cloud of floating feathers, a heavy weight struck the springy earth.

There lay the big mottled bird, splendid silky ruffs spread, dead eyes closing, a single tiny crimson bead twinkling like a ruby on the gaping beak.
"Dead!" said Siward to the dog who had dropped to shot; "Fetch!" And, signalling the boy behind, he relieved the dog of his burden and tossed the dead weight of ruffled plumage toward him.

Then he broke his gun, and, as the empty shells flew rattling backward, slipped in fresh cartridges, locked the barrels, and walked forward, the flush of excitement still staining his sunburnt face.
"You deal death mercifully," said the girl in a low voice.

"I wonder what your ci-devant sweetheart would think of you." "A bungler had better stick to the traps," he assented, ignoring the badinage.
"I am wondering," she said thoughtfully, "what I think of men who kill." He turned sharply, hesitated, shrugged.