THE HILL OF DREAMS
great blackened tiles with raised initials and a date—I.M., 1684.
'Sit down, Master Lucian, sit down, sir,' said Morgan.
'Annie,' he called through one of the numerous doors,' here's Master Lucian, the parson, would like a drop of cider. Fetch a jug, will you, directly?'
'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.'
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