"If they were not," said he, "you shall find Herb-Robert growing along the roadside, and the Herbman himself in Adversane."
And holding the swing fast as he sat on the roof, Martin sang her his last song, not very loud, but so clearly that the shadows under the apple-tree heard every note and syllable.
Good morrow, good morrow, dear Herbman Robert!
Good morrow, sweet sir, good morrow!
Oh, sell me a herb, good Robert, good Robert,
To cure a young maid of her sorrow.
And hath her sorrow a name, sweet sir?
No lovelier name or purer,
With its root in her heart and its flower in her eyes,
Yet sell me a herb shall cure her.
Oh, touch with this rosy herb of spring
Both heart and eyes when she's sleeping,
And joy will come out of her sorrowing,
And laughter out of her weeping.
"Good-by, Martin."
"Good-by, Gillian."
"I want to ask you a lot more questions, Martin."
"Off you go!" cried he. And let the swing fly. Back it came.
"Martin! why didn't—"