When she came near enough to him, she heard him humming A tune he had thought forgotten, the weaver’s tune. “And the only harm that I’ve ever done, Was to love a pretty maid.”

She halted, trying to listen. He stopped the tune. “What’s that you were singing?” she said. “Oh, just trash,” he said. “I liked it. Sing it some more.” But he would not sing it.

They regarded each other a foot or so apart. Their shadows blotted together into one shadow.