He came to the gate and stood listening. There was no sound to be heard save the rush of the river through the sluices of the mill.
Geraint pushed the gate open and peered about under the apple trees.
“Good evening to you, holy sir.”
Some one was laughing close to him in the dusk.
“Who’s there?”
“What, not know my voice?”
“It is you?”
“Come and see. Have you forgotten the seat by the hedge?”
He thrust the apple boughs aside, and saw the white kerchief that covered her shoulders.
“Where is the girl?”