"Well, you go down over Alewife Bridge, then, an' cast a look into Annie Darling's gardin. She's gone away an' left it as neat as wax, an' that gate o' hern swings open sometimes an' them 'tarnal ducks'll git in. You wait a minute. I'll give ye a mite o' wire I kep' to twist round the gate." He sought absorbedly in his pocket and pulled out a little coil. "There!" said he, "that's the talk."
Wilfred accepted the wire in silence, and drove along.
"Who's Annie Darling?" asked Lily with innocence.
She had not been long in the town without hearing that Wilfred had been "going" with Annie Darling before his sudden invitation to her, that night after prayer-meeting, "May I have the pleasure of seeing you home?" Wilfred himself could not have told why he asked that question when Annie, he knew, was only a pace behind. The one thing he could remember was that, when he saw Lily coming, he realized that he had never in his life known there were cheeks so red and eyes so dark.
"Who is she?" asked Lily, again, tightening her veil. It had been blowing against his cheek.
"Annie Darling?" said Wilfred, with difficulty. "Why, she's a girl lives round here. Her mother died last winter, and she's been tryin' to go out nursin'. That's where she's gone now, I guess."
Lily Marshall laughed.
"It's a funny name," she said. "I should think folks'd turn it round and make it 'Darling Annie.'"
Wilfred felt a hot wave sweeping over him, the tide of recollection.
"Well," said he, "I guess they have—some of 'em."