‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed Peebles. ‘You say she’s living! Moya Macartney living?’ The woman turned her face to the moonlight, and let her shawl, which had hidden it, fall back upon her shoulders. The old man stepped nearer, peering on her with a look of mingled expectation, incredulity, and superstitious horror. The face was white, thin, and wrinkled, but he recognised it in a moment; and as the great black eyes dwelt on Peebles’ face, the thin lips murmured a name which struck on his astonished ears like a veritable echo from the grave. ‘Moya!’ he cried. ‘Moya Macartney! No! It can’t be!’ ‘It is, sir,’ said Moya. ‘I’m Moya Macartney. Old and gray now, Mr. Peebles, but the same colleen ye knew once in Kenmare.’ The hidden listener raised his head cautiously. ‘Saints preserve us!’ he muttered, and taking advantage of Peebles’ wonder and consternation, crept nearer to him and his companion. ‘Meeracle of meeracles!’ cried the old man. He extended a trembling hand, and took that which Moya held out in answer. It was as real as, and warmer and steadier than, his own. ‘Ay! ye’re flesh and blood; but--what does it mean?’ ‘Sure, it’s a long story,’ said Moya; ‘but I’ll tell it ye in as few words as I can. When I left my child and went away broken-hearted, I little thought to live another day; but my courage failed me, and I feared to face my Maker before my time. I lived on, unknown and far away. But I heard news from time to time of my son. I knew that he was growing up happy, and ignorant, thank God, of his mother’s shame.’ ‘Puir lass!’ said Peebles. ‘Puir lass! And it’s been for his own sake that ye’ve held aloof from him all these years--never shown your face or spoke a word!’ ‘Sure, why should I? ’Twas enough for me to think that maybe, when he thought that I was dead, my lord’s heart might be turned to the poor friendless boy, and that he might crape into his father’s heart and earn his love. I said to myself a thousand times, “God bless him! I’ll never disgrace him. He shall never learn that his mother’s still living on this weary earth.”’ ‘But ye’ve come at last, Moya,’ said Peebles, wiping his eyes; ‘ye’ve come at last to----’ ‘Only to hear of his happiness--only, maybe, to get one glimpse of his face. Oh, sir, if I could do that same, I’d die happy, for the heaviness of years is on me, and I’ve not long to live. Speak to me! Tell me of him! Is he well and happy?’ ‘Weel?’ repeated Peebles. ‘Ay, he’s weel enough. Happy? Ay, he’s as happy as most folk, for it’s a wearyin’ world.’ He paused, looking pityingly at Moya, and then resumed in a hesitating manner: ‘I’ve news for ye that I fear will not be over welcome to ye. ’Twas only yesterday he learned the truth. He found oot that Lord Kilpatrick was his father, and with that, poor lad, he shook the dust from his feet and fled away from his father’s house.’ ‘My God!’ cried Moya. ‘But who tould him? Not you, sure?’