The Bird Woman told
them that they might practice in Freckles' room until she finished with
Little Chicken, and then she and McLean would come to the concert.
It was almost three hours before they finished and came down the west
trail for their rest and lunch. McLean walked ahead, keeping sharp watch
on the trail and clearing it of fallen limbs from overhanging trees. He
sent a big piece of bark flying into the swale, and then stopped short
and stared at the trail.
The Bird Woman bent forward. Together they studied that imprint of
the Angel's foot. At last their eyes met, the Bird Woman's filled with
astonishment, and McLean's humid with pity. Neither said a word, but
they knew. McLean entered the swale and hunted up the bark. He replaced
it, and the Bird Woman carefully stepped over. As they reached the
bushes at the entrance, the voice of the Angel stopped them, for it was
commanding and filled with much impatience.
"Freckles James Ross McLean!" she was saying. "You fill me with
dark-blue despair! You're singing as if your voice were glass and might
break at any minute.
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