‘My mother is dead,’ said Desmond. ‘She died long ago--when I was but a child. Good-night t’ ye, and God help ye through your trouble.’ ‘Where are you going, Desmond?’ asked Peebles. ‘To the farm yonder; they’ll put me up for the night.’ ‘Wait for me there to-morrow. I must see you.’ ‘I’ll wait,’ said Desmond. He looked again at Moya, who was crying unrestrainedly. ‘Poor soul!’ he said. ‘She seems to have a heavy grief.’ ‘She has,’ said Peebles. ‘She’s lost all the folk she loves.’ ‘Like me,’ sighed Desmond. ‘Well, well! “Though I lave thee for ever,”’ he began singing again as he turned away, till interrupted by the stranger’s voice. ‘Sir--Mr. Desmond!’ cried the woman suddenly, ‘they say that the blessing o’ one broken heart may help to heal the trouble of another. Will ye bend down in this holy place and take a poor creature’s blessing?’ ‘Sure,’ said Desmond, ‘it’s only one blessing in the whole world that I seek, and that I can never have--the blessing of my own dead mother.’ ‘Maybe it might come through me! I’m a mother, too!’ ‘Humour her, laddie,’ said Peebles gently. ‘Humour her. Her sorrow’s great.’ Desmond took off his cap and knelt with bent head. It seemed long before the voice broke the solemn stillness, but when at last it was audible, it was strangely firm. ‘May the Lord watch over ye, now and for ever! May the mouth of the mother that bore ye spake through me, and bring ye happiness, health, and peace. May your days be long in the land, till you’re old and gray like me. But, oh, may ye never know my trouble or lose what I have lost. Amen! Amen!’ ‘And may God bless _you!_’ said Desmond, rising, deeply touched by the solemn words and the deep rich voice which had spoken them. ‘And now,’ said Moya, ‘will ye let a poor crathure kiss your forehead, for the sake of her own son that she’ll never see again?’ She took his head between her hands and pressed her lips to his brow in a long embrace. ‘The Lord be with you, Desmond Macartney.’ With no other word, she turned and left the graveyard, Peebles following her after a hasty reminder to Desmond of their engagement for the morrow. It was not till some minutes later, when Desmond’s voice rose again on the air at a considerable distance, and the figures of Moya and Peebles had disappeared, that Feagus rose to his feet. ‘Monomondiaoul!’ he said softly to himself. ‘Moya Macartney alive! And what will me lord and Mr. Conseltine say to that, I wonder?’ CHAPTER VII.--BLAKE, OF BLAKE’S HALL.