“We’ve been married fifty years this spring, an’ every spring we’ve listened for the cuckoo an’ not one missed. An’ this year he’s dyin’, an’ he’s a-wantin’ to hear it so, an’ it’s over early. O Davie, Davie!”
“There, Annie, there, dear,” soothed the young man; “tell me about it. We’ll see, Annie.”
“There’s no more,” said Annie, “only he kept askin’ about things, violets an’ cowslips an’ birch-trees an’ poplars, an’ I knew all the time he was thinkin’ of the cuckoo an’ not askin’ because he was goin’ an’ mightn’t hear it. An’ one day he did. An’ I said I thought he’d hear one that very evenin’, that everythin’ was over early. Then he seemed happier than I’d seen him, an’ I went off up the hill an’ practised it till I could do it fair. O Davie, lad!”
“Now, Annie dear,” comforted the young man, patting her helplessly on the back. “Annie dear, don’t cry, just tell me more.”
“Then, sir, I sang the song in the corner of the garden, an’ when I went into the house there was such a look of joy on David’s face that’s not been there for many a month, an’ it was no matter Lowry Prichard found me singin’. It’s the last happiness I can give him, sir.”
“I see,” said the young man; “aye, Annie, I see. And you will be wishing to do it again?”
“Aye, sir, Davie’s expectin’ to hear the cuckoo to-night. Each time might be his last, an’ I cannot disappoint him, poor lad.”
“Well, Annie,” said the minister, looking shyly out the window, “I’ll be around the garden at dusk watching, and there’ll be no one to annoy you while you are singing, so sing your best for Davie.”
“Oh, sir, thank you,” replied Annie, drying her tears and sighing with relief; “it’s a comfort. But ye’re no harmin’ your conscience for me, sir, are ye?”