'They binna up!' she replied, continuing to dance.
He never wasted words. He continued the air with one hand and threw a stone at her with the other. He hit her on the cheek.
'You wold beast!' she screamed.
'Gerroff taters!' He continued to play.
She went, hand to cheek, and frowning, off the potato patch. But she did not stop dancing. Neither of them ever let such things as anger, business, or cleanliness interfere with their pleasures. So Hazel danced on, though on a smaller area among the virgin's pride.
The music, wild, crude and melancholy, floated on the soft air to Edward as he approached. The sun slipped lower; leaf shadows began to tremble on Hazel's pinafore, which, with its faded blue and its many stains, was transmuted in the vivid light, and looked like the flowers of virgin's pride.
'"The Ash Tree"!' said Abel, who always announced his tunes in this way, as singers do at a choir supper.
The forlorn music met Edward at the gate. He stopped, startled at the sight of Hazel dancing in the shadowy garden with her hair loose and her abandon tempered by weariness. He stood behind the hedge until Abel brought the tune to an early end with the laconic remark, 'Supper,' and went indoors with his harp.
Edward opened the gate and went in.
'Eh, mister! what a start you give me!' said Hazel breathlessly.