“I canna—I dinna ken them noo,” replied Donal.
“Oh, Donal! are those lovely words gone—altogether—for ever? Shall I not hear them again?”
“I’ll try to min’ upo’ them whan I gang hame,” he said. “I canna the noo. I can think o’ naething but ae thing.”
“And what is that, Donal?”
“Yersel’,” answered Donal.
Ginevra’s hand lifted just a half of its weight from Donal’s arm, like a bird that had thought of flying, then settled again.
“It is very pleasant to be together once more as in the old time, Donal—though there are no daisies and green fields.—But what place is that, Donal?”
Instinctively, almost unconsciously, she wanted to turn the conversation. The place she pointed to was an opening immediately on the roadside, through a high bank—narrow and dark, with one side half lighted by the moon. She had often passed it, walking with her school-fellows, but had never thought of asking what it was. In the shining dusk it looked strange and a little dreadful.
“It’s the muckle quarry, mem,” answered Donal: “div ye no ken that? That’s whaur ’maist the haill toon cam oot o’. It’s a some eerie kin’ o’ a place to luik at i’ this licht. I won’er at ye never saw ’t.”
“I have seen the opening there, but never took much notice of it before,” said Ginevra.