"Very well, father," came the voice from the dairy and presently the girl
entered, wiping the jug she held. In his boyish way Lucian had been a
good deal disturbed by Annie Morgan; he could see her on Sundays from his
seat in church, and her skin, curiously pale, her lips that seemed as
though they were stained with some brilliant pigment, her black hair, and
the quivering black eyes, gave him odd fancies which he had hardly shaped
to himself. Annie had grown into a woman in three years, and he was still
a boy. She came into the kitchen, curtsying and smiling.

"Good-day, Master Lucian, and how is Mr. Taylor, sir?"

"Pretty well, thank you. I hope you are well."

"Nicely, sir, thank you. How nice your voice do sound in church, Master
Lucian, to be sure. I was telling father about it last Sunday."

Lucian grinned and felt uncomfortable, and the girl set down the jug on
the round table and brought a glass from the dresser. She bent close over
him as she poured out the green oily cider, fragrant of the orchard; her
hand touched his shoulder for a moment, and she said, "I beg your pardon,
sir," very prettily. He looked up eagerly at her face; the black eyes, a
little oval in shape, were shining, and the lips smiled. Annie wore a
plain dress of some black stuff, open at the throat; her skin was
beautiful. For a moment the ghost of a fancy hovered unsubstantial in his
mind; and then Annie curtsied as she handed him the cider, and replied to
his thanks with, "And welcome kindly, sir."

The drink was really good; not thin, nor sweet, but round and full and
generous, with a fine yellow flame twinkling through the green when one