The rain did not swerve from its work; it came down steadily; they could not see through the swift lead-colored drops. But, within, the little cave was cheery in the fire-light, and the toasted bread had an appetizing fragrance. At least Heathcote said so; Anne thought it was burned. She opened her basket, and they divided the contents impartially--half a biscuit, half a pickle, half an apple, and a slice and a half of cake for each. The potatoes were hardly warmed through, but Heathcote insisted that they should be tasted, "in order not to wickedly waste the salt." Being really hungry, they finished everything, he stoutly refusing to give up even a crumb of his last half-slice of cake, which Anne begged for on the plea of being still in school. By this time they were full of merriment, laughing and paying no attention to what they said, talking nonsense and enjoying it. Anne's cheeks glowed, her eyes were bright as stars, her brown hair, more loosely fastened than usual, lay in little waves round her face; her beautiful arched lips were half the time parted in laughter, and her rounded arms and hands seemed to fall into charming poses of their own, whichever way she turned. About three o'clock the veil of rain grew less dense; they could see the fields again; from where he sat, Heathcote could see the road and the mill. "Can we not go now?" said Anne. "By no means, unless you covet the drenching we have taken so much care to escape. But by four I think it will be over." He lit a cigar, and leaning back against the rock, said, "Tell me some more about that island; about the dogs and the ice." "No," said Anne, coloring a little; "you are laughing at me. I shall tell you no more." Then he demanded autocratically that she should sing. "I choose the song you sang on New-Year's night; the ballad." And Anne sang the little chanson, sang it softly and clearly, the low sound of the rain forming an accompaniment. "Do you know any Italian songs?" "Yes." "Please sing me one." She sang one of Belzini's selections, and remembered to sing it as Tante had directed. "You do not sing that as well as the other; there is no expression. However, that could hardly be expected, I suppose." "Yes, it could, and I know how. Only Tante told me not to do it," said the girl, with a touch of annoyance. "Tante not being here, I propose that you disobey." And Anne, not unwillingly, began; it had always been hard for her to follow Tante's little rule. She had heard the song more than once in the opera to which it belonged, and she knew the Italian words. She put her whole heart into it, and when she ended, her eyes were dimmed with emotion.