Let me pluck thee, Torranan! With thine increase as to sea and land; With the flowing tide that shall know no ebbing By the assistance of the chaste St. Bride, The holy St. Columba directing me, Gentle Oran protecting me, And St. Michael, of high-crested steeds, Imparting virtue to the matter the while, Darling plant of all virtue, I am now plucking thee! All the time the old man had been carefully disengaging the cream-white, dome-shaped flower, he had crooned over and over: "_Lamh Bhride leam, Tha mi 'nis ga'd bhuain!_" The hand of St. Bride with me I am now to pluck thee! So, too, now--now that he had the Torranan safe at last, he kept repeating: "_'Cuir buaidh anns an ni, Tha mo lus lurach a nis air a bhuain!_" Darling plant of all virtue, I am now plucking thee! But the line that was on his lips for long that day--even after he had given the flower to Mary Maclean, with assurance that it was gathered during the lift of the tide, was _Ri lionadh gun tra'adh_--"With the flowing tide that shall know no ebbing." Over and over he said this below his breath. _Ri lionadh gun tra'adh_; strange words these: what was the hidden thing in them? What was the _lionadh_, the flowing tide: was it life or death? But now the rare bloom was found: he was glad of that. He doffed his weather-worn bonnet, and placed the flower in the hollow of it: then, calling Ghaoth from the already scattered kye, he turned and made his way back to the clachan. When he entered Mrs. Maclean's cottage, where his breakfast of porridge was ready, he made and received the usual salutation of blessing: and then sat down in silence. The room was full of sunlight--so full that Mrs. Maclean had hung a screen of bracken from an iron hook, so that it shielded the peat-fire and let the life of the flame burn unchecked. He did not look at Alastair; and, indeed, all the morning-blitheness had gone out of the eyes of the old man. Not that any there noticed his taciturnity. Mrs. Maclean moved softly to and fro. Alastair sat broodingly in the leathern chair before the fire: Lora on a stool at his feet, with her right hand clasped in his left and her eyes fixed on his face. On the table the porridge was untouched, the new bread uncut, the warm milk grown tepid. With a sigh, Alastair rose at last. Crossing the room, he went to the east window and stared forth unseeingly, or, at any rate, without sign of any kind. Then, restlessly, he began to pace to and fro. Repressing her tears, Lora seated herself at the table and tried to eat, hopeful that she might thus induce him to do likewise. Mrs. Maclean followed her example, but ate in silence. She had almost ended, when Lora saw that she had abruptly laid down her spoon and was looking intently at Ian. The old man now followed every motion of the invalid with a look as of one fascinated. When, suddenly, Alastair turned, went to the door and crossed the threshold, Ian rose and followed.