"Ways me, but thoos not the same heartsome lass," he said, and went on piling the fagots around the shaft. "But I count nowt of sec wark," he added, after a pause.
Little Mercy's eyes strayed back from the bubbling pot to the tents below. There was a shout of applause.
"That's Geordie Moore's voice," thought Mercy. She could see a circle with linked hands. "They're playing the cushion game," she said under her breath, and then drew a long sigh.
Though she did not care to go to the sports to-day, she felt, oh! so sick at heart. Like a wounded hare that creeps into quiet ambush, and lies down on the dry clover to die, she had stolen away from all this noisy happiness; but her heart's joy was draining away. In her wistful eyes there was something almost cruel in this bustling merriment, in this flaunting gayety, in this sweet summer day itself.
The old charcoal-burner had stepped up to where the girl knelt with far-away eyes.
"Mercy," he said, "I've wanted a word with you this many a day."
"With me, father?"
The girl rose to her feet. There was a look of uneasiness in her face.
"You've lost your spirits—what's come of them?"
"Me, father?"