it, looking up at her as she leaned over him. “Strike up, Daphnis, something about honey or white cheese—or else the early apples that’ll be ripe in a week’s time.”
“I’m sure the apples you showed me are ever so little and green,” interrupted Miss Denys; “they will never be ripe in a week—ugh, sour!”
He smiled up at her in his whimsical way:
“Hear that, Tempest—‘Ugh, sour!’—not much! Oh, love us, haven’t you got a start yet?—isn’t there aught to sing about, you blunt-faced kid?”
“I’ll hear you first—I’m no judge of honey and cheese.”
“An’ darn little apples—takes a woman to judge them; don’t it, Miss Denys?”
“I don’t know,” she said, stroking his soft hair from his forehead, with her hand whereon rings were sparkling.
“ ‘My love is not white, my hair is not yellow, like honey dropping through the sunlight—my love is brown, and sweet, and ready for the lips of love.’ Go on. Tempest—strike up, old cowherd. Who’s that tuning his pipe?—oh, that fellow sharpening his scythe! It’s enough to make your backache to look at him working—go an’ stop him, somebody.”
“Yes, let us go and fetch him,” said Miss D’Arcy. “I’m sure he doesn’t know what a happy pastoral state he’s in—let us go and fetch him.”
“They don’t like hindering at their work, Agnes—besides, where ignorance is bliss——,” said Lettie, afraid lest she might bring him. The other hesitated, then with her eyes she invited me to go with her.
