Except I did the washin', what would there be for me to care for David with now that he needs me? GUTO. Yiss, but ye could do it on some other day. ANNIE. Nay, for the ladies are waitin' now for what they've given me to do — an' they so kind.

LOWRY. I see Pastor Morris comin' in.

ANNIE. Aye, he's comin' every day an' some days bringin' me the food from his own table for my man. [Enter PASTOR MORRIS, young, earnest, and rather severe because of his youth.]

LOWRY [the inquisitional look on her face deepening, and her voice growing mare shrill, pointing to Annie]. Ye see, sir, what Annie Dalben's been doin' while we were in meetin'. She's needin' a sermon, aye, that she is.

GUTO. She's goin' quite on the downfall, sir.

ANNIE. Lowry Prichard, ye've no cause to speak so about me. When was I ever absent when my man was well? But now, sir [turning to MORRIS], as ye know, he's ill an' needin' me an' all the s'illin's I can earn. I cannot go away from him.

LOWRY [speaking to PASTOR MORRIS]. She's needin' your advice, sir. 'Tis that she is needin' whatever. Warn her well.

GUTO. Yiss, an' rebuke her.

LOWRY. Ye're young, sir, but ye're the instrument of the Lord whatever. 'Tis your duty to bring her back to her conscience.

GUTO. Amen.

[LOWRY and GUTO go off very self-righteous and looking triumphantly at ANNIE, who, quiet, her face pale and weary, turns to her washing and rubs and rinses diligently while the minister is talking.]

MORRIS [gently]. I've been troubled, for I knew that it would come to this, Annie. I should have spoken with you before about going to chapel. Some one could be found to stay with David while you were at meeting. You have not been to chapel for a month, Annie.

ANNIE [continuing her work but in her voice the attitude of the older woman towards the young man]. Ye're very kind, sir, to take the interest, but I'm thinkin' ye cannot understand. There's been no occasion, sir, for ye to understand through what I've been goin' these days. [She rubs her sleeve across her tear-filled eyes and continues washing sturdily.]

MORRIS. Yes, but, Annie, what is David thinking? Does he want you to stay away from the meetings where you have always been together?

ANNIE. Nay, sir.

MORRIS. Has he spoken of your staying away? ANNIE [reluctantly]. Aye, sir, he asked this evenin' why I was not in meetin'.

MORRIS [reflectively]. He did. Well, I am thinking that

ANNIE [dropping her work and speaking as if worried]. Nay, sir, I've no cause to excuse myself to ye ye're naught but a lad. 'Tis past your knowledge how my man is everythin' to me everythin', he is. He's been such a husband as no one but myself can know, thinkin' of me all the time, livin' for me, as gentle an' tender to me as if I had been a child, an' now, sir, he's ill he may be dyin', an' I can think of nothin' but doin' everythin' for [DAVID taps on window and ANNIE turns to open it.] Aye, lad dear. 'Tis the Pastor comin' to see ye again.

DAVID [smiling, and holding out one weak old hand]. Good evenin', sir, such a grand day, with spring everywhere. We've been expectin' the cuckoo, sir — the wife and I. Have ye heard the cuckoo, yet, Annie?

MORRIS [starting to speak]. 'Twill be a fortnight be— ANNIE [interrupting hurriedly]. Nay, lad dear, I've been busy, but I'm thinkin' I'm likely to hear it now any moment aye, any moment.

MORRIS. But, Annie, the cuckoo doesn't

ANNIE. Tut, sir, I could almost promise the cuckoo would be singin' at sundown whatever aye, indeed, lad darlin'. Now I'll

DAVID [interrupting]. Annie, ye mind that baby cuckoo we saw the skylark a-feedin' that first spring in Blaen Cwm? It all comes back so clear now an' clearer every moment. I'd not once thought of it, sir, since then.

MORRIS. But, David, the

ANNIE [speaking to DAVID and closing the windows]. Lie down, lad darlin', an' be quiet. I'll call ye, if the cuckoo sings.

[In the distance the choir can be heard practising Cariad, a revival hymn, in the chapel. Continues until ANNIE is alone and talking to herself.]

MORRIS [severely]. But, Annie, you know the cuckoo will not sing at least for another fortnight. It is mid-April before the cuckoo sings.

ANNIE [wearily]. Aye, sir.

MORRIS. Why did you say that to David?

ANNIE. He's achin', sir, to hear the cuckoo sing, an' I'm wantin' to comfort him.

MORRIS. But, Annie, it is a lie to say what you did to him.

ANNIE [vigorously]. Aye, sir, but I'm not carin' whatever.

MORRIS [severely]. Not caring about telling a lie? ANNIE. Nay, sir, I'm not carin' about anythin' but makin' him happy.

MORRIS [rebukingly]. Annie! [ANNIE continues washing and does not reply.] Annie! Well, indeed, Annie, if there is nothing I can do for you, and you will not listen to me, I must be going to choir practice. I promised to be there this evening.

ANNIE [without turning from the tub]. Aye, sir. [PASTOR MORRIS off through garden path to choir practice. Goes to left. ANNIE continues washing until he is well out of sight. She stands up straight and looks about the garden.] He's wantin' to hear the cuckoo more nor anythin' else, dear, dear! Everywhere 'tis green now, an' the lilies will be here before long — but lad, lad, the cuckoo, will it come? [She goes to left into garden, the wet clothes in a basket under her arm, and stands there looking about.] 'Twas over there it laid its egg in the robin's nest this year ago in Mayaye, an' one poor little bird pushed the other out, an' ye picked it up, lad dear, an' were so tender with it. An' they're not wantin' ye, Davy, my old lad darlin', to think the cuckoo will be singin' soon. Dear God, is there to be no cuckoo singin' for the lad again? Just once more, dear God, to sing to him and comfort him? Aye! just the one song? No cuckoo? Aye, there will be a cuckoo singin', there shall be a cuckoo singin'! [She looks towards the closed windows behind which DAVID lies, and puts down her basket of clothes.] He's asleep! Hush, I'll be the cuckoo! He'll wake an' think the spring has really come.

Here

by this tree. They're in the chapel, an' they'll never know. [Throughout this scene, until LowRY speaks, a cuckoo song is being played very softly. And it is into a few notes of this, several times repeated, that ANNIE swings when she actually sings her cuckoo song. She opens her mouth to begin, a look of appealing misery on her face.] 'Twas somethin' like this: Coo-o. Coo-o! Tut, that sounds like a hen. I know, it goes over an' over again, sing-song, sing-song, like this: cu-cu, cu-cu. Aye, that's better. [She rocks herself backwards and forwards, practising it and repeating cu-cu, cu-cu.] 'Tis growin' better, but lad, lad, I'm plannin' to deceive ye whatever. [Brushes tears away impatiently and begins song again.] Cucu-cu, cucu-cu, cucucu-cu, cu! Aye, that's fair; aye, 'tis fine! He'll not know me from a real cuckoo. I'll try loud now, for ye've no long, dearie.

[She holds eagerly on to tree beside her, so lost in cuckoo music that she is not aware of a head popping up behind the garden wall and down again. She draws a long breath and begins, softly, slowly, the song sounding as if it came from a distance. She waits a moment, the heads are well above the wall now in amazement, and then sings more loudly, making the song sound as if it came from the garden where she is standing.] DAVID [calling]. Annie!

ANNIE [hurrying to open his windows]. Aye, lad dear, I'm comin'.

DAVID [ecstatically]. Annie, Annie, dear, I heard the cuckoo singin'; I was dreamin' again, an' all at once I heard the cuckoo singin' in the garden, loud and clear. It sang three times; first, it sounded. like somethin' else, 'twas so breathless; then it sang

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