‘A poor colleen that kilt herself for love. Leastways, she drowned herself, but wint out of her mind first, to make sure of Christian burial. Are ye livin’ hereabouts, my woman?’ ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’ve a lodging down at the old mill.’ ‘Musha!’ said the gravedigger, ‘that’s a lonesome place.’ ‘The more fit, maybe,’ she answered, ‘for a lonesome woman.’ ‘Will ye be going now?’ asked the man, looking at her with some anxiety. ‘Presently,’ she answered. ‘Sure, I’m doing no harm.’ ‘Sorra the bit,’ he said; ‘but I’m thinking that there’s not many women--nor men ayther, for that matter--who’d care to walk this graveyard at night, when the fairies walk it. Well, tastes differ, and so good luck t’ ye.’ ‘And good luck to _you!_’ the woman answered. The man shouldered his tools and went off, resuming his interrupted whistle. The woman looked anxiously down the road. ‘It’s past the time I named,’ she said to herself, ‘and no sign of him yet.’ She walked to the low wall which separated the graveyard from the road, and stood there, watching so keenly that the sound of a footstep approaching from the opposite side of the churchyard failed to wake her attention. The unseen wayfarer, who was no other than Mr. Feagus, returning homewards after a wettish evening with a client beyond the village, caught sight of her tall, gaunt figure clearly outlined against the pale flood of moonlight which deluged the sky. ‘Who’s that, now?’ he asked himself, with a start,--‘a woman, or a taisch?--a Christian soul, or an ugly spirit? Wake my soul to glory! I’m sorry I took this road, for it’s lonesome for a lawyer with long arrears of conscience to make up; and, faith, here’s another of ’em coming the way I came myself. No, ’tis a man this time, a living man, bless the saints! I’ll step along with him for company. Am I drunk or dreamin’? ’Tis that old omadhaun, Peebles the steward! ’Tis mighty queer! What can bring a quiet man like that down here at night-toime? If it’s an assignation with that female? The old rascal! I’ll keep out of his way, and watch what he’s after.’ He slid cautiously over the wall, and established himself in the deepest shadow, just as Peebles’ lean figure emerged into clear moonlight. The old man paused at the wicket-gate. ‘I saw someone here--I’d swear till it, and noo there’s nae sign of any living thing. Lord save us! it’s a gruesome place. Well, gruesome or no gruesome, I’ll e’en see it through. She’s there!’ he exclaimed, catching sight of the woman’s figure. ‘Ahem! Was’t you, lass, that sent the message to Mr. Peebles?’ The woman turned eagerly. ‘Yes, sir!’ she cried. ‘I sent for you!’ ‘Good e’en t’ ye, whoever ye are,’ said Peebles. ‘I’m here at your service, though I ken little enough what it is ye want o’ me. ’Twas of Moya Macartney ye wanted to speak--the puir lassie that died lang syne?’ ‘Of Moya Macartney, sure enough,’ answered the woman. ‘But she never died, sir. She’s alive this day, and nearer than ye think!’