“My name,” said the bearded man, “is Mac Cúl.” “Last night,” said the Philosopher, “when I came from the house of Angus Óg in the Caves of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to a man named Mac Cúl—that the horses had trampled in their sleep and the sleepers had turned on their sides.” “Sir,” said the bearded man, “your words thrill in my heart like music, but my head does not understand them.” “I have learned,” said the Philosopher, “that the head does not hear anything until the heart has listened, and that what the heart knows to-day the head will understand to-morrow.” “All the birds of the world are singing in my soul,” said the bearded man, “and I bless you because you have filled me with hope and pride.” So the Philosopher shook him by the hand, and he shook the hands of his sons and daughters who bowed before him at the mild command of their father, and when he had gone a little way he looked around again and he saw that group of people standing where he had left them, and the bearded man was embracing his children on the highroad. A bend in the path soon shut them from view, and then the Philosopher, fortified by food and the freshness of the morning, strode onwards singing for very joy. It was still early, but now the birds had eaten their breakfasts and were devoting themselves to each other. They rested side by side on the branches of the trees and on the hedges, they danced in the air in happy brotherhoods and they sang to one another amiable and pleasant ditties. [Illustration: A young woman came along the road and stood gazing earnestly at this house] When the Philosopher had walked for a long time he felt a little weary and sat down to refresh himself in the shadow of a great tree. Hard by there was a house of rugged stone. Long years ago it had been a castle, and, even now, though patched by time and misfortune its front was warlike and frowning. While he sat a young woman came along the road and stood gazing earnestly at this house. Her hair was as black as night and as smooth as still water, but her face came so stormily forward that her quiet attitude had yet no quietness in it. To her, after a few moments, the Philosopher spoke. “Girl,” said he, “why do you look so earnestly at the house?” The girl turned her pale face and stared at him. “I did not notice you sitting under the tree,” said she, and she came slowly forward. “Sit down by me,” said the Philosopher, “and we will talk. If you are in any trouble tell it to me, and perhaps you will talk the heaviest part away.” “I will sit beside you willingly,” said the girl, and she did so.