She was just beginning once more when steps rustled behind her and a voice said tauntingly: “Pooh! ’tis a pretty cuckoo ye make, Annie, an’ a pretty song!”
“Lowry Prichard!”
“It’s over early for the cuckoo, is it not?”
“Aye.”
“An’ what are ye singin’ in your garden for, an’ David dyin’?”
Annie’s mild eyes gathered fire, but she said nothing.
“Are ye deceivin’ David, an’ he on the edge of the grave, Annie? ’Tis a godly song to sing, an’ a tale for Chapel, eh, Annie?”
“Ye—may—go—out—of—this—garden, an’ that this minute,” said Annie, advancing.
Lowry backed towards the wicket.