CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.
THE SPITTING-SNAKE.
"What can be the matter with my pretty birds ?" asked Truey of herself.
"Something wrong surely! I see no hawk.

Perhaps they are fighting among themselves.

I shall go round and see.

I shall soon pacify them." And so saying she mended her pace; and passing round the end of the lake, walked out upon the peninsula until she stood under the willow.
There was no underwood.

The tree stood alone upon the very end of the spit of land, and Truey went close in to its trunk.