door, which, stepping outside, she closed carefully behind her. She looked sharply at the approaching group, and her kindly wrinkled face hardened. Peter Williams spoke first:—

“A fine mornin’ to ye, Annie Dalben.”

“Thank ye, Peter Williams, for the wish.”

“How is your man?” asked John Roberts.

“He is the same,” replied Annie, in a level tone of voice.

Lowry Prichard moved nearer:—

“We’ve come about the cuckoo-singin’, Annie. At the Chapel last night the congregation prayed for ye, an’ a committee was appointed to wrestle with ye.”

Annie breathed quickly.

“Aye, Sister,” continued Peter Williams, “ye’ve always been a godly member of the flock; ye would not have David go to Heaven with your lie on his soul?”

“Amen!” sang Lowry Prichard.

“An’, Sister, there was light in that meetin’; the Spirit’s among us these days; yours are the only lyin’ lips.”

“Repent!” shouted John Roberts.

“Have ye done?” asked Annie.

“But, Sister——”

“I’ve a word to say. I’ve no mind to your salvation, no, nor to Heaven if the Lord makes this singin’ a lie. I’m a-thinkin’ of David as I’ve thought of him these fifty years, an’ if a lie will make him happy when he’s dyin’, then I’m willin’ to lie, an’ do it every minute of the day.”

“Sinner!” muttered John Roberts.

“Aye, sinner, a willin’ sinner,” said Annie, her soft eyes blazing; “be gone, an’ ye need not return.”

Annie bolted the door and sat down wearily on a chair. She felt quiet; it mattered so little now what the neighbours thought of her if only David might die happy, and David still believed he had heard the cuckoo. She was tired, so tired that she did not care what the Chapel said of her; and her heart was numb. She knew that David was going, but it did not come home to her in the least except to make her hungry to bring him happiness. He should have that if she could give it. At a faint call she hastened to his room.

“Annie, there’s some one outside, an’——”

“Aye, David Dalben, there is, an’ Annie is a cuck—”

But the sentence was never finished, for Annie forced Lowry Prichard’s head back and slammed the casement to, latching it securely.

“What does she want?” asked David feebly.

“I cannot say, lad, but she’s no right talkin’ to ye through a window. She’s an idle, pryin’ young woman. I’ll see now that she’s out of the garden. Go to sleep, dearie, it’s bad for ye havin’ so much noise over nothin’; aye, that’s a good lad,” and Annie smoothed his brow with one hand the while she brushed aside her tears with the other.

If David should live a week longer, could she ever keep the truth from him? For a day, yes, perhaps. But for an entire week, with all Nant y Mor trying to force a way to the sick man? No. And how could she sing morning and night with the neighbours spying into the garden and around the house? She felt friendless; for strength only the courage of a mother left alone in the world with a sick child to protect. She had no idea of relinquishing her plan, although she was in despair, and if any one had come to her with a friendly hand she would have wept. As it was, she was ready to meet attack after attack.

Annie was not surprised, later in the day, to see young Pastor Morris coming up the pathway. He came slowly. When he greeted Annie his eyes sought the ground, his complexion was ruddier and more boyish than ever, and his lips, usually firm in speech, seemed uncertain. But the large hand with which he held Annie’s was warm and kind. In the clean kitchen he began to talk with Annie about David: how was David, what did the physician say, wasn’t Annie growing tired, what could he do? Suddenly the young Pastor changed as if brought face to face with a disagreeable duty.

“Annie, they say that you are imitating a cuckoo; is it so?”

“Aye, sir, for David’s ears.”

“But, Annie, that is acting a lie, is it not?”

“It may be,” replied Annie wearily.

“Wouldn’t it be better if I were to tell David, Annie?”

“Oh, no, no, no!” sobbed Annie. “Not that!”

“Annie, Annie, you mustn’t cry so; there!” and the young man stretched out his hand helplessly.

“Oh, sir, it’s all the happiness David’s got, an’ he is goin’. O my lad, my lad!”

“There, there, Annie!”

“We’ve been married fifty years this spring, an’ every spring we’ve listened for the cuckoo an’ not one missed. An’ this year he’s dyin’, an’ he’s a-wantin’ to hear it so, an’ it’s over early. O Davie, Davie!”

“There, Annie, there, dear,” soothed the young man; “tell me about it. We’ll see, Annie.”

“There’s no more,” said Annie, “only he kept askin’ about things, violets an’ cowslips an’ birch-trees an’ poplars, an’ I knew all the time he was thinkin’ of the cuckoo an’ not askin’ because he was goin’ an’ mightn’t hear it. An’ one day he did. An’ I said I thought he’d hear one that very evenin’, that everythin’ was over early. Then he seemed happier than I’d seen him, an’ I went off up the hill an’ practised it till I could do it fair. O Davie, lad!”

“Now, Annie dear,” comforted the young man, patting her helplessly on the back. “Annie dear, don’t cry, just tell me more.”

“Then, sir, I sang the song in the corner of the garden, an’ when I went into the house there was such a look of joy on David’s face that’s not been there for many a month, an’ it was no matter Lowry Prichard found me singin’. It’s the last happiness I can give him, sir.”

“I see,” said the young man; “aye, Annie, I see. And you will be wishing to do it again?”

“Aye, sir, Davie’s expectin’ to hear the cuckoo to-night. Each time might be his last, an’ I cannot disappoint him, poor lad.”

“Well, Annie,” said the minister, looking shyly out the window, “I’ll be around the garden at dusk watching, and there’ll be no one to annoy you while you are singing, so sing your best for Davie.”

“Oh, sir, thank you,” replied Annie, drying her tears and sighing with relief; “it’s a comfort. But ye’re no harmin’ your conscience for me, sir, are ye?”

“I’m not saying, Annie; I’m over young to have a conscience in some things. I’ll be going in to speak a few words to David, shall I?”

“Aye, sir, ye’re so kind.”

And so it happened that at dusk, when David’s eyes were growing wider with expectation and his heart was beating for very joy of the coming song, Annie, after she had patted him in motherly fashion, smoothed out his coverlets, called him lad dear, and dearie, and Davie, and all the sweet old names she knew so well how to call him—so it happened that she stole out into the garden with a lighter heart to sing than she had had in many a day. She knew the young minister was somewhere around to protect her from interruption. Standing by the honeysuckle trellis, swaying her old body to and fro, she sang. The song came again and again, low, sweet, far away, till all the hill seemed chiming with the quiet notes and echoes. And the young man listening outside to the old woman singing inside the garden knew something more of the power of love than he had known before; and he bowed his head, thinking of the merry notes and of David in the twilit room dying. Annie sang the song over and over again, then over and over again, till