The old man’s voice was so tremulous with emotion that Desmond stopped short, and peered into his face questioningly in the pale moonlight which was struggling with the thick dust of the summer night. ‘For God’s sake, Peebles,’ he said, ‘what is it?’ ‘It’s just this,’ returned the Scot. ‘That poor woman was Moya Macartney--your own mother!’ For some seconds Peebles’ speech carried no emotion to Desmond’s mind. ‘My mother!’ he repeated, in a voice whose only expression was one of pure bewilderment. ‘My mother?--Moya Macartney?’ ‘Ay,’ said Peebles. ‘She that was dead is alive. ’Tis a long story, and I’ve neither time nor breath to tell you all. She spread the report of her own death eighteen years ago, and went across the seas to America. All these long, weary years, she’s denied her heart the only pleasure it could ever know--the pleasure of seeing her son’s face and hearing his voice. At last she could bear it no longer--she came. It was she you talked wi’ last night in the kirkyard, she who kissed your forehead and gied you her blessing.’ Desmond clutched at his throat with a choking sob. ‘For God’s sake, laddie,’ cried the old man, ‘don’t break down noo! There’s work to be done. You don’t know all yet, nor the half o’t.’ ‘My mother!’ cried Desmond. ‘My mother!’ He took off his soft felt hat, crushing it in his hand, and pulled his collar open, stifling with surprise and emotion. Peebles, seeing it vain to continue his story for the moment, paused, waiting till the first shock of his communication should have passed away. ‘My mother!’ Desmond repeated again, after an interval. He spoke mechanically, with an utter lack of emotion in voice and manner. ‘My mother! Well?’ ‘The laddie’s stunned wi’ the intelligence,’ said Peebles to himself, ‘and small wonder. Can you understand what I’m saying, Desmond?’ he asked, taking the lad’s arm. ‘We must gang on, lad. There’ll maybe be serious work for us this night. D’ye understand me?’ ‘Yes,’ said Desmond slowly, his mind still feeling numbed and dim. ‘I can hear what you say, Mr. Peebles, but it--it all seems so strange. Is it dreaming that I am?’ ‘’tis no dream,’ answered Peebles. ‘It’s as real as the soil beneath your feet, and as true as God’s above ye. Pull yerself together, lad, pull yerself together!’ ‘Well,’ said Desmond, resuming his way in obedience to the impetus of Peebles’ hand, ‘go on--I’ll try to understand.’