"God bless you again, Jerry—breakfast! And here among the trees it will be like old times, though Jessamy ought to be with us, of course."
"Well he's over at my little camp not so far away. I'm pitched t' other side Amberley wood."
"How is he, Jerry?"
"Mighty well. He's rich again, y' see—aye, richer than ever an' pursooed by several widders in consequence. He's come into a mort o' money, has Jessamy. But you know all about it, o' course?"
"Not a word."
"Lord, an' 't was your uncle, Sir Jervas, as done it! Left Jess five—thousand—pound! Think o' that!"
Thus, talking like the old friends we were, we set about collecting sticks and soon had the fire burning merrily. All at once we stood silent and motionless, for Diana was singing.
It was an Italian love song full of sweet rippling notes and trills but, as she sang it, a very ecstasy of yearning tenderness that changed suddenly to joy and rapturous happiness, her glorious voice ringing out full-throated, rich and clear, inexpressibly sweet, swelling louder and louder until suddenly it was gone and we standing mute with awed delight.
"She's a-doin' her hair!" whispered Jerry. "She allus used to sing in the morning a-doin' her hair, I mind, but never—ah, never so—wonderfully!"
And then she began again, this time that Zingari air we both remembered so well. Singing thus, she stepped out into the sunlight but, seeing us, stopped in the middle of a note and ran forward (even as I had done) with both hands outstretched in greeting.