The wee little elf!—
Have broken the spell o’er the dear little Ninnie!’
The Ninnie-Dinnie in the bramble-basket gave the crippled woman another look of entreaty as the voice of the singer died away. She understood that look so well, for she had appealed to her heart in that very same way when she had asked her to give back the Lark his music, the Pool its beams, and it made her feel now, as she felt then, that it was exceedingly selfish of her to want to keep what was not really her own, however desirable. And when the child, or whatever it was, met her gaze again she conquered her selfishness and resolved to give her back, whatever it cost her—‘even,’ she said, ‘if it breaks my heart-strings.’ And as the odd little woman in the mine-maiden’s bonnet paused for a moment as if awaiting her will, in all the impetuosity of her generous nature she cried out:
‘I give ’ee back your dinky, your little Mudgeskerry, your little Pednpaley, and whatever else you do call the little dear that you brought me ten years ago. I feel I’ve no mortal right to keep what don’t belong to me, though I thought she did by this time. Take her if you must, an’ thank ’ee kindly for the loan of her all these years.’
Joan’s voice trembled as she uttered the last word, and the eyes of the lovely little Ninnie-Dinnie spoke their sympathy as she kept her gaze on her, and the funny little woman who had the voice of youth and the figure of old age showed hers in her voice, for she sang sweeter than before. It was an unfettered song, as unfettered as a lark’s in the golden dawn:
‘To the carns we will hasten, my little pednpaley.
Then let us away
That a birdie may
Fly down from th’ Sky’s Blue Nest
Above the shining West,