“Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock,”
she warbled of the wind; and a blade of it flashed in cuttingly on the note, for just then somebody pushed open the tap-door and entered.
Her song died in her throat. It went up like the requiem of the phœnix, in a flame of fire that reddened her cheeks, and then left them white as the ashes of rose leaves.
“Mr. Tuke,” she whispered.
He came in with a dark look on his face, that seemed stiff, moreover, with the onset of furious blasts; but the teeth showed in a smile as he walked up to the counter and held out his hand to the girl.
“Are you alone, Betty?”
“Yes,” she murmured, almost inaudibly.
He clasped the soft palm in his, and would not let it go.
“And you are decorating,” he said. “How snug and warm it looks, and I am chilled to the bone.”