.

"Yes," she answered getting on the swing, "thank you. And thank you for
everything. Thank you for coming three times this year. Thank you for
the stories. Thank you for giving their happiness again to my darling
friends. Thank you for all the songs. Thank you for drying my tears."

"Are they all dried up?" said Martin.

"All," said Gillian.

"If they were not," said he, "you shall find Herb-Robert growing along
the roadside, and the Herbman himself in Adversane."

And holding the swing fast as he sat on the roof, Martin sang her his
last song, not very loud, but so clearly that the shadows under the
apple-tree heard every note and syllable.

Good morrow, good morrow, dear Herbman Robert!
Good morrow, sweet sir, good morrow!
Oh, sell me a herb, good Robert, good Robert,
To cure a young maid of her sorrow.

And hath her sorrow a name, sweet sir?
No lovelier name or purer,
With its root in her heart and its flower in her eyes,
Yet sell me a herb shall cure her.

Oh, touch with this rosy herb of spring
Both heart and eyes when she's sleeping,
And joy will come out of her sorrowing,
And laughter out of her weeping.

"Good-by, Martin."

"Good-by, Gillian."

"I want to ask you a lot more questions, Martin."

"Off you go!" cried he. And let the swing fly. Back it came.

"Martin! why didn't--"

"Jump when you're clear!" called Martin. But back it came.

"Why didn't the young Squire in the story--"

"Jump this time!" And back it came.

"--come to fetch her himself, Martin?"

"Jump!" shouted Martin; and shut his eyes and put his hands over his
ears. But it was no use; again and again he felt the rush of air, and
questions falling through it like shooting-stars about his head.

"Martin! what was the name on the eighth floret of grass?"

"Martin! what was the letter you threw with the Lady-peel?"

"Martin! why is my silver ring all chased with little apples?"

"Martin! do you--do you--do you--?"

"Shall I never be rid of this swing?" cried Martin. "Jump, you
nuisance, jump when I tell you!"

And she jumped, and was caught and kissed among the shadows.

"Gillian!"

"Gillian!"

"Gillian!"

"Gillian!"

"Gillian!"

"Dear Gillian!"

And then like a golden wave and she the foam, they bore her over the
moonlit grass to the green wicket, and they threw it open, and she went
like a skipping stone across the duckpond and over the fields to
Adversane.

When she had vani