We gather all there is of good,
Of earth’s most bounteous wholesome food,
Give God the heartfelt praise.”
She sang in a low round contralto, a voice as ripe as her beauty. Peregrine, plucking the tabor from beneath his cloak, joined in with the last verse. She turned her head at the sound, gave him a gay good-morning at the end of words and music.
“So you are a musician,” quoth she.
“Of a sort,” smiled Peregrine.
“No bad sort,” she returned with a motherly air which sat well on her. “Sing you to me.”
“What should I sing?” demanded Peregrine.
“That which likes you,” returned the girl. “We ever perform best that which pleases us most.”
Peregrine laughed, and struck a couple of chords on the tabor.