“I’m that sorry, Davie lad, but ye have heard it twice, dearie, an’ it’ll be singin’ this evenin’ at dusk, perhaps, over an’ over again. Ye are feelin’ fine this mornin’, Davie?”
“Aye, better nor yesterday mornin’; I’ll be gettin’ well, Annie, is it not so?”
“Indeed, lad dear, ye’ll be about among the heather ’fore long.”
Annie turned suddenly and went back into the kitchen; there in a corner she dried her eyes with her apron, drew a long breath, and went on with her household duties. She was disposing of the work rapidly when she heard the click of the wicket gate. Coming up the path were John Roberts, Peter Williams, and Lowry Prichard. Annie put down the pot she was scouring, wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the kitchen door, which, stepping outside, she closed carefully behind her. She looked sharply at the approaching group, and her kindly wrinkled face hardened. Peter Williams spoke first:—
“A fine mornin’ to ye, Annie Dalben.”
“Thank ye, Peter Williams, for the wish.”
“How is your man?” asked John Roberts.
“He is the same,” replied Annie, in a level tone of voice.
Lowry Prichard moved nearer:—