A little figure filled the door of the shed and Estelle Waldron appeared.  She shook hands and greeted the worker with friendship, for Estelle was now free of the Mill and greatly prided herself on personally knowing everybody within them.

“Good morning, Mercy,” she said.  “I’ve come to see Nancy Buckler.”

“Good morning, miss.  I know.  She’s going to run in at dinner time to sing you her song.”

“It’s a wonderful song, I believe,” declared Estelle, “and very, very old.  Her grandfather taught it to her before he died, and I want to write it down.  Do you like poetry, Mercy?”

“Can’t say as I do,” confessed the warper.  She was a fair, tall girl.  “I like novels,” she added.  “I love stories, but I haven’t got much use for rhymes.”

“Stories about what?” asked Estelle.  “I have a sort of an idea to start a library, if I can persuade my father to let me.  I believe I could get some books from friends to make a beginning.”

“Stories about adventure,” declared Mercy.  “Most of the girls like love stories; but I don’t care so much about them.  I like stories where big things happen in history.”

“So do I; and then you know you’re reading about what really did happen and about great people who really lived.  I think I can lend you some stories like that.”

Mercy thanked her and Estelle fell silent considering which book from her limited collection would best meet the other’s demand.  Herself she did not read many novels, but loved her books about plants and her poets.  Poetry was precious food to her, and Mr. Churchouse, who also appreciated it, had led her to his special favourites.  For the present, therefore, Estelle was content with Longfellow and Cowper and Wordsworth.  The more dazzling light of Keats and Shelley and Swinburne had yet to dawn for her.

Nancy Buckler arrived presently to sing her song.  Her looks did not belie Nancy.  She was sharp of countenance, with thin cheeks and a prominent nose.  Her voice, too, had a pinch of asperity about it.  By nature she was critical of her fellow creatures.  No man had desired her, and the fact soured her a little and led to a general contempt of the sex.

She smiled for Estelle, however, because the ingenuous child had won her friendship.

“Good morning, miss,” she said.  “If you’ve got a pencil and paper, you can take down the words.”

“But sing them first,” begged the listener.  “I want to hear you sing them to the old tune, because I expect the tune is as old as the words, Nancy.”

“It’s a funny old tune for certain.  I can’t sing it like grandfather did, for all his age.  He croaked it like a machine running, and that seemed the proper way.  But I’ve not got much of a voice.”

“’Tis loud enough, anyway,” said Mercy, “and that’s a virtue.”

“Yes, you can hear what I’m saying,” admitted Miss Buckler, then she sang her song.