“Nan—Nan, where are you?” called a girlish voice out of the darkness.
“Stay where ye are, Anny lass, till I get ye a light.”
Nan’s stentorian tones boomed over the flat bogs. Hurriedly she crossed to the darkest corner of the little hut where she fumbled for a minute or two. There was the sound of soft scraping of flint on steel then the tinder caught fire and Nan lit a tallow dip and carried it to the door, holding it high above her head.
There was no breath of wind in the cloudless night and the flame burned steadily.
“Oh! Nan, I’m so glad ye’re here,” came the same voice out of the darkness, this time a good deal nearer.
“Why, lass, wherever else would I be? What’s ailing ye, my girl?”
Anny scrambled over the last dyke and staggered breathless into the circle of light thrown by the little flame of the dip.
“Let me come in and talk with ye, Mother,” she said, clutching hold of the elder woman’s ragged kirtle.
Nan put a strong bony arm round the girl’s shoulders, and when she spoke her deep voice had a softer quality in it than before.
“Sit down, lass, sit down, and get your breath, and then I’ll listen to ye as long as my eyes will keep open,” she said kindly.