inning of innumerable birds.

They took hands and hurried down the gravel path. Did ever Madonna
lilies, did ever clove carnations smell as did these, lifting their heads
from their morning bath? Yet field challenged garden with the fragrance
of new-mown hay wafted down through the elms from Parc-an-hal, that great
meadow.

On the low wall by the garden-gate Myra found a seat for Clem, helped him
to lace his boots, and then did on her own.

"What's the time?" Clem demanded.

"I don't know, but he'll be coming soon. It can't be four o'clock yet, or
we should hear Jim Tregay knocking about the milk-pails."

The boy sat silent, nursing his knee, drinking in a thousand scents and
sounds. Myra watched the great humble-bees staggering from flower to
flower, blundering among their dew-filled cups. She drew down a lily-stem
gently, and guided her brother's hand so that it held one heady fellow
imprisoned, buzzing under his palm and tickling it. Clem laughed aloud.

"Listen!"

A lad came whistling Up the road from the village. It was Tom Trevarthen,
and the sunshine glinted on his silver earrings.

"Good-morning, missy! Good-morning, Master Clem! I'm good as my word,
you see; though be sure I never reckoned to find 'ee up and out at this
hour."

"Myra woke me," said Clem. "I believe she keeps a clock in her head."

"When I want to wake up at any particular hour, I just do it," Myra
announced calmly. "Have they begun the rafting?"

"Bless your life, they've been working all night. There's one raft
finished, and the other ought to be ready in a couple or three hours, to
save the tide across the bay."

"I don't hear them singing."

"'Tisn't allowed. The Bo--your Aunt Hannah, I mean--says she don't mind
what happens to sea, but she won't have her nights in harbour disturbed.
Old Billy Daddo hadn't laid hands on the first balk before he began to
pipe, 'O for a thousand tongues to sing,' starting on the very first hymn
in the collection like as if he meant to sing right through it. He hadn't
got to 'music in the sinner's ears' before the old woman pushed her face
overside by the starboard cathead, nightcap and all--in that time she must
ha' nipped out of her berth, up the companion, and along the length of the
deck--and says she, 'I ben't no sinner, William Daddo, but a staid woman
that likes her sleep and means to have it.' 'Why, missus,' says Billy,
'you'll surely lev' a man ask a blessing on his labour