“Gregory can’t hear me sing,” she said pitifully.
“Then why don’t you dance? he could see you dance.”
“I asked him to come for a walk,” she said, her brightness dimmed by tears.
“And he wouldn’t go? with you and Linnet?”
“No, he was drawing.”
“Ah?” said Silas. “But Linnet went with you? Linnet wasn’t busy?”
“What’ll I sing that pleases you?” she said, maintaining her endeavour; “‘Loch Lomond?’ You used to like ‘Loch Lomond.’”
“Ask Linnet; he’s Scotch; no doubt that’s what put a Scotch song into your mind.”
“Silas!” she said in despair, dropping her hands on to her zither, which gave forth a jangle of sounds.
“If you want home, as you say, stop here with Linnet; I’ll lend you my cottage,” said Silas, rising and groping for his cap. “Play at home for a bit. Draw the curtains, light the lamp, make tea for yourselves, put the kettle back to sing on the hob, and you, Nan, sing to your zither to your heart’s content. It’s a pleasant, warm room, for pleasant, warm people. Home of a Sunday, with the wind shut out! Oh yes, I’ll lend you my cottage. Gregory’s lost in his drawings till supper-time. Stay here and talk and smoke and sing, while the room grows warmer, and you forget the wind and the two dead horses and spoilt fodder lying down the road. Spend your evenings in forgetfulness. Ask no questions of sorrow. Kill darkness with your little candle of content.”