"Are we not all bidding it in?" said Joscelyn impatiently.
"Yes, like sweet daughters of the house," said Martin. "But what of the mistress?" And he looked across at Gillian by the well, but she looked only into the grass and her thoughts.
"Let the daughters do to begin with," said Joscelyn, "and make it your business to stay till the mistress shall appear."
"That might be to outstay my welcome," said Martin, "and then her appearance would be my discomfiture. For a hostess has, according to her guests, as many kinds of face as a wildflower, according to its counties, names."
"Some kinds have only one name," said Jessica, plucking a stalk crowned with flowers as fine as spray. "What would you call this but Cow Parsley?"
"If I were in Anglia," said Martin, "I would call it Queen's Lace."
"That's a pretty name," said Jessica.
"Pretty enough to sing about," said Martin; and looking carelessly at the Well-House he thrummed his lute and sang—
The Queen netted lace
On the first April day,
The Queen wore her lace
In the first week of May,
The Queen soiled her lace
Ere May was out again,
So the Queen washed her lace
In the first June rain.
The Queen bleached her lace
On the first of July,
She spread it in the orchard
And left it there to dry,
But on the first of August
It wasn't in its place
Because my sweetheart picked it up
And hung it o'er her face.
She laughed at me, she blushed at me,
With such a pretty grace
That I kissed her in September
Through the Queen's own lace.
At the end of the song Gillian sat up in the grass, and looked with all her heart over the duckpond.