“Whist, woman!” cried Pete. “Don't you hear it?”
A cuckoo was passing over the house and calling.
“It's over the thatch, Kate. 'Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!' Three times! Bravo! Three times is a good Amen. Omen is it? Have it as you like, love.”
The stars had paled out by this time, and the dawn was coming up like a grey vapour from the sea.
“Ugh! the air feels late; I must be going in,” said Kate.
“Only a bit of a draught from the mountains—it's not morning yet,” said Pete.
A bird called from out of the mist somewhat far away.
“It is, though. That's the throstle up the glen,” said Kate.
Another bird answered from the eaves of the house.
“And what's that?” said Pete. “Was it yourself, Kitty? How straight your voice is like the throstle's!”