Mercy. [Whispering] ’Tisn’t your turn. [To Strangway] ’Tis a man like us.

Ivy.  I know what Mrs. Strangway said it was, ’cause I asked her once, before she went away.

Strangway. [Startled] Yes?

Ivy.  She said it was a man whu forgave everything.

Strangway.  Ah!

     The note of a cuckoo comes travelling.  The girls are gazing at
     Strangway, who seems to have gone of into a dream.  They begin
     to fidget and whisper.

Connie.  Please, Mr. Strangway, father says if yu hit a man and he don’t hit yu back, he’s no gude at all.

Mercy.  When Tommy Morse wouldn’t fight, us pinched him—­he did squeal! [She giggles] Made me laugh!

Strangway.  Did I ever tell you about St. Francis of Assisi?

Ivy. [Clasping her hands] No.

Strangway.  Well, he was the best Christian, I think, that ever lived—­simply full of love and joy.

Ivy.  I expect he’s dead.

Strangway.  About seven hundred years, Ivy.

Ivy. [Softly] Oh!

Strangway.  Everything to him was brother or sister—­the sun and the moon, and all that was poor and weak and sad, and animals and birds, so that they even used to follow him about.

Mercy.  I know!  He had crumbs in his pocket.

Strangway.  No; he had love in his eyes.

Ivy.  ’Tis like about Orpheus, that yu told us.

Strangway.  Ah!  But St. Francis was a Christian, and Orpheus was a
Pagan.

Ivy.  Oh!

Strangway.  Orpheus drew everything after him with music; St.
Francis by love.

Ivy.  Perhaps it was the same, really.

Strangway. [looking at his flute] Perhaps it was, Ivy.

Gladys.  Did ’e ’ave a flute like yu?

Ivy.  The flowers smell sweeter when they ’ear music; they du.

     [She holds up the glass of flowers.]

Strangway. [Touching one of the orchis] What’s the name of this one?

     [The girls cluster; save mercy, who is taking a stealthy
     interest in what she has behind her.]

Connie.  We call it a cuckoo, Mr. Strangway.

Gladys.  ’Tis awful common down by the streams.  We’ve got one medder where ’tis so thick almost as the goldie cups.

Strangway.  Odd!  I’ve never noticed it.

Ivy.  Please, Mr. Strangway, yu don’t notice when yu’re walkin’; yu go along like this.

     [She holds up her face as one looking at the sky.]

Strangway.  Bad as that, Ivy?

Ivy.  Mrs. Strangway often used to pick it last spring.

Strangway.  Did she?  Did she?