"Ah, it was when he first kissed you!" "Yes, dear," Sorcha answered, flushing again; "yes, it must have been then." "Sorcha, tell me, do you love him very much?" "Yes. More than I can tell you, my sunbeam. When you are a woman you will understand." "When I am a woman I am going to marry Nial." "Nial!" "Yes. No one will love him, because he has no soul; but _I_ love him, and will marry him. Half of my soul will then be his." "Is that so, then? Sure 'tis a south wind for Nial! And where will you live, Oona-my-heart?" "The White Merle will show us the way." "Ah, I see, it is a fairy tale. Well ... Oona, I will tell you a secret. _I_ have heard the song of the White Merle!" The child's eyes grew big with wonder and excitement. "When? Where? Was it where the old yews are in the Upper Strath?" "It was now here and now there." "But when, when?" "Whenever Alan called me 'Dream,' and the other names, I heard the song of the White Merle." "Ah, it is you that I envy! Sorcha, do you think that if Nial called me beautiful names I should hear it, too?" "I fear not, dearie ... _not yet_. Perhaps--perhaps if _you_ called _Nial_ those beautiful names _he_ would hear the song." "Then I will." "No, not yet, Bonnikin. You will only harm Nial. But now run away. Father will be seeking you." "Ah, and who will be seeking _you_?" cried Oona, as she danced away, laughing. "Ah, 'tis a good name, _Dream_; for you are always dreaming in your eyes now, Sorcha!" * * * * * Yet day by day thereafter the child laughed less blithely. There was a shadow about her foster-father. It held her spellbound. Never had she been so long away from the woods before, never before had she been so long indoors. She was glad to be with the blind man, and to take his hand when he went out to stride sometimes for miles along the rough ways of the hills. She talked much to him about the White Merle, and the "guid-folk," and the quiet people; sometimes of Nial, and of the strange things he saw and heard, and how the birds and beasts would come to him, and how he harmed none, nor they him. Sometimes she asked about the Cailliach, or about the wind-spirits; or strange questions about the people of the Strath, glimpses of whom she had occasionally, and for whom, particularly for the black-garbed minister, she did not conceal her contempt and dislike. Sometimes she sang; and that was what the blind man liked best. Once only she spoke of Alan: how she thought that Christ must be like him, so fair to see was he; how she loved his low voice, and soft touch, and grave, sweet eyes. But she saw at once that no good would come out of any mention of that name. Her foster-father grew moodily taciturn; and when, after a long silence, he spoke, it was to ask her in a harsh voice if she had ever broken his command, and climbed the opposite slopes of Tornideon. "Never, father." "And have you ever sought the woman Anabal, that is mother of Alan?" "No."