the house she kissed her hand toward the swallows, who flitted in and
out of their nests, twittering ecstatically.

"Hark to her," said Fani, "singing again, if you please--always
light-hearted! always happy! I don't think its quite right, Jos bâch,
do you? You are a deacon at Penmorien and you ought to know. If it
was a hymn now! but you hear it's all nonsense about the swallows. Ach
y fi! she is learning them from Sara ''spridion';[1] some song of the
'old fathers' in past times!"

"Yes," said Jos, sanctimoniously clasping his stubby fingers, "I'm
afraid the girl is a bit of a heathen. What wonder is it? Nursed by
Sara--always out with the cows or the sheep, and they say she thinks
nothing of sleeping under a hedge, or out on the slopes, if any animal
is sick and wants watching."

Fani went out with a toss of her head, as the sweet voice came in
through the little side window with the twittering of the swallows and
the cluck, cluck of a happy brood hen.

Outside, Morva had forgotten all about Jos Hughes and Fani "bakkare's"
sour looks, and was singing her heart out to the sunshine.

"Sing on, little swallows," she said, "and I'll sing too. Sara taught
me the 'bird song' long ago when I was a baby."

And in a clear, sweet voice she joined the birds, and woke the echoes
from the brown cliffs. The tune was quaint and rapid; both it and the
words had come down to her with the old folklore of generations passed
away.