"So, a little ago, I lit the peats, which had smouldered into ash; and now, bonnie wee doo, I will be making the porridge for you, and see ... the water is boiling that is in the kettle, and I'm thinking it is singing _Oona, Oona, mochree, Oona, Oona, mochree, come and be having the food with poor Nial_! And, Oona, look you, there is the warm milk, and the bread; for I milked the brown cow Aillsha-bàn, when Sorcha went up the hill with Alan. An' I couldn't be milking the white one, Gealcas, for she wouldn't give without Sorcha's singing, an' I could not be minding that song; no, not I; but I knew the song for Aillsha-bàn: "Aillsha-bàn, Aillsha-bàn, Give way to the milking! The holy St. Bridget Is milking, milking This self-same even The white kye in heaven-- Ay, sure, my eyes scan The green place she is in, Aillsha-bàn, Aillsha-bàn: And her hand is so soft And her crooning is sweet As my milking is soft Upon thee, Aillsha-bàn-- As my crooning is sweet Upon thee, Aillsha-bàn, Aillsha-bàn-- So soft is my hand and My crooning so sweet, Aillsha-bàn!" Poor Nial's singing was not restful, for his voice was at all times shrill and hoarse, and now it had an added quaver in it. But Oona listened, drowsily content. She had remembered all. Yes: Sorcha was right that day when she said Death roamed through every hour, and that the moment before each new hour Death stood at the door and broke the link that held the going and the coming in one bond.