‘I?’ cried Peebles--‘I, that hae guarded the secret these eighteen years, and burdened my conscience with endless lees for the poor lad’s sake and yours! No, no, Moya. He was taunted wi’ his birth by a wicked whelp--his cousin, Richard Conseltine’s son, and a’ came oot.’ ‘And then?’ cried Moya. ‘My lord begged him to stay, offered to make him his lawful heir, but he refused the siller and cursed his father in his mother’s name. Ah, don’t greet, woman, or I’ll be greeting too. Your name’s deepest in the lad’s heart, and first upon his lips.’ ‘God bless him!’ sobbed the heartbroken mother. ‘But what shall I do? What shall I do?’ ‘Let me take ye to him,’ said Peebles. ‘Eh, lass, but the boy’s heart will leap for joy to know ye’re alive.’ ‘No!’ said Moya, shrinking back. ‘No, no! Let things be as they are. It’s betther, far betther, that he should think me dead. Alive, I shall only shame him more. Just let me see him, let me look into his eyes and hear his voice--’tis all I ask of the blessed saints, and I’ll go back to where I came from and never trouble him again.’ At that moment, as if in answer to the impassioned prayer of that lonely heart, a voice rose at a hundred yards’ distance. Peebles started at the sound: ‘Tho’ I lave thee for ever, my darling, and go, Thine image shall haunt me in sunshine and snow; Like the light of a star shining over the foam, Thy face shall go with me wherever I roam.’ ‘Lord save us!’ cried Peebles. ‘’Tis himself.’ ‘Who?’ cried Moya wildly. ‘Desmond? My son?’ ‘Ay! your son Desmond. Wheest, woman! He’s coming this way.’ ‘Though waves roll between us, sweet star of my love, Thy voice calls unto me----’ Desmond’s voice rose again as he spoke, nearer and more distinct. ‘Mr. Peebles!’ he cried, pausing in his song to scrutinize his old friend’s figure in the moonlight. ‘It’s late for you to be out here among the graves. Who’s that with ye?’ Peebles hesitated. Moya touched him lightly on the arm. ‘It’s just a poor peasant body. She’s strange to these parts, and was asking the way.’ Moya had gathered her shawl about her face again, and a sob broke from her. ‘Sure she’s in trouble,’ Desmond added pityingly. ‘Yes, sir,’ said Moya, conquering herself, ‘I’m in bitter trouble. And by the same token there’s trouble in _your_ heart too.’ ‘In mine?’ said Desmond, forcing a laugh, not very successfully. ‘Ye favour one I used to know,’ said Moya. ‘Will ye tell me your name, sir?’ ‘My name?’ said Desmond hesitatingly. ‘Well, why not? My name’s Desmond Macartney.’ ‘Desmond Macartney!’ the woman repeated. ‘I’ll not forget it. Sure I’d once a boy of me own, as swate to look upon as yourself. It’s proud your mother should be of such a son.’