Mara Doss had heard the ballad sung badly in six towns and one moving city.
The driver at the head of the fuel column was making a determined attempt to surpass all of them.
He had the tune nearly right. That was the difficulty. She could have ignored a man inventing a song of his own, but each familiar turn gave her hope before he put another wrong word into it.
“It’s the mill door,” she called.
He looked back.
“What?”
“In the third verse. She waits beside the mill door. Not the millstone.”
“Wouldn’t stand beside a door in that weather.”
