"Behold her singing in the field,
Yon solitary highland lass."
That nourished her heart. So did "Fair Ines." And—
"It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun."
These were like herself. And there was he, saying in his throat bitterly:
"Tu te rappeleras la beaûté des caresses."
The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven, arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion, the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathed up in the scullery.
"Mater needn't know till morning," he said. "It won't upset her so much then as at night."