The rain had ceased; but the mist still hung over the land, though in thin veils now, and these slowly drifting seaward. Sheen stepped wearily along the stony path that led from her bothy to the farm-house. She stood still once, the fear upon her, for she saw three or four blurred yellow gleams moving beyond her, eastward, along the dyke. She knew what they were--the corpse-lights that on the night of death go between the bier and the place of burial. More than once she had seen them before the last hour, and by that token had known the end to be near. Good Catholic that she was, she crossed herself, and took heart. Then muttering "Crois nan naoi aingeal leam 'O mhullach mo chinn Gu craican mo bhonn." (The cross of the nine angels be about me, From the top of my head To the soles of my feet), she went on her way fearlessly. When she came to the White House, she entered by the milk-shed that was between the byre and the kitchen. At the end of it was a paved place, with washing-tubs. At one of these stood a girl that served in the house--an ignorant lass called Jessie McFall, out of Oban. She was ignorant, indeed, not to know that to wash clothes with a newly dead body near by was an ill thing to do. Was it not a matter for the knowing that the corpse could hear, and might rise up in the night and clothe itself in a clean white shroud? She was still speaking to the lassie when Maisie Macdonald, the deid-watcher, opened the door of the room behind the kitchen to see who it was that was come. The two old women nodded silently. It was not till Sheen was in the closed room, midway in which something covered with a sheet lay on a board, that any word was spoken. "Duit sith mor, Beann Macdonald." "And deep peace to you, too, Sheen; and to him that is there." "Och, ochone, mise 'n diugh; 'tis a dark hour this." "Ay; it is bad. Will you have been hearing or seeing anything?" "Well, as for that, I am thinking I saw lights moving betwixt here and the green place over there." "The corpse-lights?" "Well, it is calling them that they are." "I _thought_ they would be out. And I have been hearing the noise of the planks--the cracking of the boards, you know, that will be used for the coffin to-morrow." A long silence followed. The old women had seated themselves by the corpse, their cloaks over their heads. The room was fireless, and was lit only by a tall wax death-candle, kept against the hour of the going. At last Sheen began swaying slowly to and fro, crooning low the while. "I would not be for doing that, Sheen Macarthur," said the deid-watcher in a low voice, but meaningly; adding, after a moment's pause, "_The mice have all left the house_." Sheen sat upright, a look half of terror, half of awe in her eyes. "God save the sinful soul that is hiding," she whispered.