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Show AWT, lad dear, no more, or yell be havin' an attack an' " Annee's words sounded inconclusive, although she fortified them by an animated ani-mated gesture with her plump, wrinkled hand. Her eyes glanced timidly from the window to David's face. "But, Annce, ye've no said a word of the cuckoo," said David, plaintively. ' Ay, the cuckoo," replied Annce, her heart sinking sink-ing as she sent her voice up "the cuckoo' "Has it come? Did ye hear it?" The old man clasped and unclasped his hands helplessly, childish disappointment overspreading his face. "David dear j if ye'd but listen to what I was a-goin' a-goin' to say" Annce gulped "I was a-goin' to say that I've no heard the cuckoo yet, but that everything every-thing so ovcrearly, an' I'm expectin' to hear one any time now. It's so warm there might be one sirigin' at dusk to-day there might be!" "Might there be " asked David, his eyes brightening brighten-ing "might there be, Annec?'' "Ay, there might be, lad," and she lifted his head on her arm gently while she turned the pillow. "It's ovcrearly," he objected, "an. Annec " Bcin' a cuckoo is " But Lory never finished her taunt, for Annec pushed her through the wicket gate. The old , wife went towards the cottage door slowly. David must have heard Lov.ry's words, and she could never make him happy again. "Annec! Annec!" Ilcr face brightened, then fell. "Ay David, I'm cominV "nncc, did yc hear a cuckoo singin'?" David's eyes glowed rapturously in the twilight. "Ay. I thought so, dearie." "It sang three times: first it sounded like some-thin some-thin else, it was so breathless, then it sang quiet and sweet, like a cuckoo, and the third time it seemed comin' from the old mill-whccl. I was listcnin' for it again, when I heard Lowry Trichard's shrill oicc, an' I could bear no marc." "Dut, lad dear, ye've heard it, an" I'm that glad!" Annec beamed upon him. "Three times; ay, that's fmc, an' a real cuckoo: now ye're happy, dearie, an' ye'1l sleep well upon ii' "Will it. be singin' again?" asked David, with a sigh. "Ay, in the early mornin' an' at dusk. Now ye must drink jour broth an' go to sleep." "I was awake, AnnccJ when the stars were hang-in' hang-in' in the trees, an' I saw them go out one by one while I was waitin f-'r it to sing. I heard little crecpin' things makin' way through the trees an the grass, an' I saw the poplar by the window turn from silver to brown an' back to gray; an' I luard the other birds' makin' their early mornin' stirrin', tlittin' an' chirpin', an' a little breeze came an' bustled bus-tled through the trees with them, but no cuckoo, an' then just as it was singin' yc began stormin' with pots an" kettles." "Na. Davie lad, I'm that sorry; but yc have heard it twice, dearie, an' it '11 be singin' this evenin' at dusk, perhaps over an' over again. Yc arc fcclin' fine this mornin', Daic?" "Ay, better nor yesterday mornin'; I'll be gcttin' well, Annce is it not so?" "Indeed, lad dear, jell be about among the heather heath-er 'lore long. Annce turned suddenly and went back into the kitchen; there in a corner she dried her eyes with her apron, drew a long! breath, and went on with her household duties. She was disposing of the work rapidly, when she heard the click of the wicket gate. Coming up the path were John Roberts, Peter "Amen!" sang Lowry Prichard. "An', sister, there was light in that mcctin'; the fpirit's among us these days; yours arc the only ly in' lips." "Repent" shouted John Roberts. "Have yc done?" asked Annce. "But, si.-ter " "I've a word to say. I've no mind to your salvation, salva-tion, 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' it a he will make him happy when he's dyin', then I'm willin' to lie an' do it every mjnutc of the day." "Sinner!' muttered John Roberts. "Ay, sinner, a willin' sinner," said Annec, her soft eyes blazing. ' Now begone, and yc need not return." re-turn." Annec bolted the door and sat down wearily on a chair. She felt quiet; it mattered so little what the neighbors thought of her life if only David might die happy, and David still believed he had heard the cuckoo. She va tired so tired that she did not care what the church 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 lors 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 at-tack after attack. Annec was not surprised, later in the day, to see young Pastor Morris coming up the pathway. He came slowly. When he greeted Annce 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 Annee's was warm and kind. -In the clean kitchen he began to talk with Annce about David how was David? what did the physician say? wasn't Annec growing tired? what could he do Suddenly the young pastor changed as if brought face to face with a disagreeable duty. "Annce they say you arc imitating a cuckoo; is it so " "Ay, sir, for David's cars." "But, Annee, that is acting a lie, is it not?" "It may be," replied Annce, wearily. "Wouldn't it be better if I were to tell David, III - ' . : -' : - I l(j yiy 'tA';;-tiA uiy ' v--''': .. .JOfi UJIJ V : 'f vXx Etas ' IjHJ SHE LOOKED SUARI'LY AT THE Af VKOACUING CROUP. IjllJ "N'a, David dear, be still," she commanded, drawing draw-ing his head close to her bosom before she put him 4 down on the pitlow attain. -"Pastor Morris says cverythin's overcarly; even the foxglove is well up in the garden; an' the heather by Blacn Cwn will be bloomin' a month early, an' the hills will be pink, lad soon. Now, deirie, I'll be back by-aud-by with the broth; yc must be still awhile." Annec went out of the room, stepping as softly as she could. For a moment she stood on the door-sill, door-sill, looking into the old garden, green at last after the dreary winter, and beautiful in the promise of coming summer blossom. Foxglove and columbine, honeysuckles, lilies, and roses would bloom, but David would sco them no more! For fifty springs they had gone into the garden together, he to trim the hedge and bind up the honeysuckle, she to dig about the rose-bushes and flowers. And every spring there had been one evening when the cuckoo's song was heard for the first time, and when there came into David's eyes a look of boyish joy. Ah, lad, lad how she loved him I And he should hear the cuckoo again! Resolutely Annee started up-hill, climbing close by the high pasture wall, and, panting, made her way as best she could over boggy places. After she had gone about a quarter of a mile she looked around her furtively. There lay Gwyndy Bach in the distance, Ty Ceryg and Cwm Cloch far away, and the mccting-housc still farther. Only the mountains moun-tains were near by, and a few lazy sheep trailing over their wild, gray ledges. She did not sec even a sheep-dog. When she sat dow n by the stone wall there was a look of approval on her face, followed, as she opened her mouth, by a look of appealing misery. "Ay, it was somcthin' like this; Coo-o. Ocm, let me see; every year I've heard it. an' David he does it. Coo-o-ol Twl that sounds like a hen." Annce peered about her. "Cu, cu. Then she shook with silent laughter. "I know! It goes over and over again, sing-song, sing-song, like this: Cu-cu, cu-cu. Ay, that's better." Practising the song, Annce rocked herself backward and forward. "It's growin' better!" she exclaimed; "but, lad, lad, I'm planum to deceive yc," and the tears rolled out of her old eyes. She brushed the tears away impatiently and began the song again: "Cucu-cu cucu-cu, cucucu-cu, cu; ay, that's fair; ay, it's fmc; He'll not know me from a real cuckoo. I'll have to be tryin' it now, for ye've no long, dearie." Annec went down into the valley, humming the bird-notes over to herself lest she forget what she had learned. She lifted her short skirts and waded through the marshy places; in her eagerness she was unmindful of the pasture bogs, her seventy years, her weary body; and her sparse gray hair lay damp on her forehead. In Jier mother-heart was but one thought bringing his wish to Davie Gasping, she reached the southern corner of the cot-tgc cot-tgc garden, and there leaned on a trellis for support sup-port till she could get her breath. Completely engrossed en-grossed in what she was to do, she did not think to look about her, she did not listen for possible approaching footsteps, and even Davie had. slipped in importance a wee bit behind the cuckoo song. Finally bhc drew a long breath and began; she paused a moment, then repealed the song, softly, fclowly. Pleased with her success, she sang the song again, very softly, very slowly, till it sounded much as u Jt came from a di;-tance somewhere by the stream near the mill-wheel. She was just beginning once more when steps rustled behind her and a voice said, tauntingly : "Fgi, 'tis a pretty cuckoo yc make, Annec, an' a pretty song!" "Lowry rrichardl" "It's ovcrearly for the cuckoo i it not?" "Ay." : "An' what arc ye singin' in your garden for an' Daid dyin'?" Annee's mild eyes gathered fire, but she said nothing. noth-ing. "Arc ye deccivin' David an' he on the edge of the grave, Annee? It's a godly song to sing, an' a tale for meetin', th, Annce?" - "Yc may go out of this garden, an that this minute." said Annec, advancing. Lowry backed towards the wiekit. ' "Ye look fair, crazy, Annee cray with wrath ay, and your hair is all rumpled an' your smock is wet. Annee r "Oh, no, no, no!" sobbed Anne. "Not thatl" "Na, Annee, Annce, you mustn't cry so; there!'' and the young man stretched out his hand help- lessly. "Oh, sir, it's all the happiness David's got, an j he's goin'. Oh, my lad, my lad I" ' "There, there, Annee!" "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 ovcrearly. Oh, Davie, Davie," sobbed Annce. I "There, Annee there, Jrorl" soothed the young I man; "tell me about it. We'll sec, Annce." i "There's no more," said Annce, "only he kept ask- in' about tilings violets an' cowslips an birch-trees J an' poplars an' I knew all the time ho was thlnkin of-thenruckoo an' not askin' because he was gtncf an' mightn't hear it. An' or.c day he did. An' I said 1 thought he'd hear one ihat very evenin, that everythin' was ovcrearly. Then he seemed happier than I'd seen him, an' I went off up the hill an practised :t till I could do it fair. Oh, Davio, ladl" 1 'Now, Annec dear" comforted the young man, patting her helplessly on the back "Annee dear, don't cry; Just tell me more." "Then, sir, I sang the song in the corner of tha 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 Z i can give him, sir." I "I see," said the young man; "ay, Annce, I fee. i And you will be wishing to do it again?" ; "Ay, sir. Davie's expectin' to hear the cuckoo i to-night. Each time might be his last, an' I cannot disappoint him, poor lad." I "Well, Annec," said the minister, looking shyly I out of the window, "I'll be around the garden at dusk watching, and there'll be no one to annoy you j while you are singing, so sing your best for Davie " "Oh, sir, thank you," replied Annee, drying her tears and sighing with relief; 'it's a comfort. But , y e're no harmin' your conscience for mc, sir. are ye?" ! "I'm not saying, Annec; I'm over-young to have a conscience in some things. I'll be going m to speak ' a few words to David, shall I?" "Ay, sir, ye're so kind. ' And so it happened that at dusk, when David's eyes were growing wider with expectation and hi9 i heart was beating for very joy of the coming song, f that Annec, after she had patted him in motherly j. fashion, smoothed his coverlets, called him "lad dear," and "dearie," and "Davre," 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 Trom interruption. Standing by the honey-suckle 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 in-side 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 twiht room, dying. Annce sang the song over and over again, then over and over again, till beyond the valley she saw the evening star hanging in the sky. Once more she sang, and all the spring was In J her song. Then she turned to go into the house, her i heart beating with fear. As she came through thu doorway she heard her name called. "Annee, sweetheart, did ye hear the cuckoos singin'?" David -was sitting up in bed,vhfs handa-tretch towards her. "Ay, lad dear," replied Annec, softly, taking Darht i into her arms. I "An' there were so many, an'they arg vef-fio over again." "Ay. David." "But ye were no here, an I-like harin'"theirt4t- ; tcr with yc here." "Ay, dearie, I was busy." "Oh, it was beautiful singin' "Ay. lad. 1 know." "An" over an' over again, like this " But David's j notes trailed away as he started to sing. . "Ay. dearie, I sec." "An' the valley was quiet, but Annee " The ) voice ceased, for a second the pulse in his throat ! ticked sharply against her heart, then his head settled set-tled drowsily upon her breast. "Oh.nd, lad, Jfar-vDavie !" called Annie, rocking him in her arms "lad, lad dear, will ye no speak to mc?." And. the young minister, stepping in over the ; ' threshold, saw that the Messenger had come. Williams, and Lowry Prichard. Annce put down the pot she was scouring, wiped her hands on her apr,on, and went to the kitchen door, which, stepping step-ping 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 yc, Annce Dalbcn." "Thank ye. Peter Williams, for the wish." "How is your man " asked John Roberts. "He is the same," replied Annce, m a level tone of voice. Lowry Prichard moved nearer. "We've come about the cuckoo-singin. Annce. At the meetin" last night the congregation prayed for yc. an' a committee was appointed to wrestle with Je." Annce breathed quickly. "Ay, sister." continued Peter Williams, "ye've alwajs been a godly member of the flock; ye would not have David go to heaven with your lie on his soul.-" her hungry to bring him happiness He should have that if she could give it. At a faint call she hastened to his room. "Annce. there's some one outside, an' " "Ay, David Dalbcn, there is, an' Annec is a cuck " But the sentence w as never finished, for Annec -forced Lowry Prichard's head back and slammed the casement to, latching it securely. "What docs the want?" asked David, feebly. "I cannot say, lad, but she's no right talkin' to yc through a window. She's an idle, pryin' young woman. "I'll sec now that she's out of the garden. Go to sleep, de3ric, it's bad for ye bavin' so much noise over nothin'; ay, that's a good lad," and Annce An-nce 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 cvQr keep the truth from him? For a day ycj. perhapi. But fur an entire week, with all Nant y Mor trying to force a way to the sick man? No. And how-could how-could she sing morning and night with the neigh- ' David drank it obediently. "It's been a fine day, lad dear is it not so?" "Ay, a fine day. I did not think I'd ever hear it sing again," and David's head slipped contentedly onto the pillow.' "Ay," he murmured, "a happy day!" , At dawn Annce stole out to sing her cuckoo song. It was done quickly, and she was back among her pots and kettles before David could know that she had been away. She rattled the saucepans around, then she stopped to listen. Yes, there he was calling. "Ay, David. I'm comin'; I did not hear for the noise, dearie." "Annce, it's been singin again!" There was an expression of eager happiness on David's wan face. "I'm a-wantin' to hear it sing over an' over aam. over an over again. But, Annee, yc make such a clatter there's no hearin' more than a song or two. anv esterday 'twas Lowry." "Ay, dearie, it's a pity I was makin' such a noise gcttin' breakfast for yc." Copyright, 190S, by JTrper .t- Ilrotbem, all rihta reserved. |
