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?

     [He has gone off again into a kind of dream.]

Mercy.  I like being confirmed.

Strangway.  Ah!  Yes.  Now——­What’s that behind you, Mercy?

Mercy. [Engagingly producing a cage a little bigger than a mouse-trap, containing a skylark] My skylark.

Strangway.  What!

Mercy.  It can fly; but we’re goin’ to clip its wings.  Bobbie caught it.

Strangway.  How long ago?

Mercy. [Conscious of impending disaster] Yesterday.

Strangway. [White hot] Give me the cage!

Mercy. [Puckering] I want my skylark. [As he steps up to her and takes the cage—­thoroughly alarmed] I gave Bobbie thrippence for it!

Strangway. [Producing a sixpence] There!

Mercy. [Throwing it down-passionately] I want my skylark!

Strangway.  God made this poor bird for the sky and the grass.  And you put it in that!  Never cage any wild thing!  Never!

Mercy. [Faint and sullen] I want my skylark.