Connie. [Who speaks rather thickly, as if she had a permanent slight cold] Please, Mr. Strangway, ’tis a man what goes to church.

Gladys.  He ’as to be baptised—­and confirmed; and—­and—­buried.

Ivy.  ’Tis a man whu—­whu’s gude and——­

Gladys.  He don’t drink, an’ he don’t beat his horses, an’ he don’t hit back.

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.