Her mother was calling, but not in the loud, fishwife-way that other mothers shouted to their children.
Diana's mother only had to whisper her name and she would hear her. Her gentle voice flew like a tiny bird from the veranda and down the flagstone path, skimming the lily pond and low stone wall, whipping through the wisteria-covered pergola, and passing the golden honeysuckle and grevilleas before landing on Diana's shoulder and speaking into her ear.