“She’s coming nearer. It can’t be a cow she’s seeking. No beast would stray that far up amongst the heather and the stones.” The voice came more and more clearly. The words of the song reached them-- “I would I were in Ballinderry, I would I were in Aghalee, I would I were in bonny Ram’s Island Sitting under an ivy tree. Ochone, ochone!” “I know that song,” said Neal. “Everybody knows that song. There isn’t a lass in Antrim or Down but sings it.” “But I know the singer too. I heard Peg Macllrea sing it once, Matier’s Peg, and I’m not likely to forget her voice.” “If you’re sure of that, Neal, I’ll let her know we’re here. Anyway it can do no harm. There isn’t a farm lass in the whole country would betray us to the soldiers. Wait now till she sings it again.” By the firesides of Irish cottages when songs are sung during the long winter evenings the listeners often “croon” an accompaniment, droning in low voices over and over again a few simple notes which harmonise with the singer’s voice. When the girl began her tune again Hope sang with her, repeating “Ochone, ochone” down four notes from the octave of the keynote through the mediate to the keynote again. When she reached the end of the last line his voice rose suddenly to an unexpected seventh, which struck sharply on the ear. Prolonging the note after the girl’s voice died away, he rose to his feet and waved his arms. Soon Peg Macllrea was beside them. “I tell’t the master where ye were,” she said, “and I tell’t Mr. Donald. They couldn’t come theirsells, and they were afeard to let me out my lone. But I knew finely I could find you. I knew Neal here would mind my song. I brought you a bite and a sup so as you wouldn’t be famished out here on the hillside.” She took a basket from her arm and laid it at Neal’s feet. “Sit down, Peg,” said Hope, “sit down and eat with us. You’re a good girl to think of bringing us the food, and you’ll be wanting some yourself after your walk.” “I canna bide with you, and I ate my supper before I made out. I must be gettin’ back now. But I’ve a word to give you from your uncle, Neal. He bid me tell you that you’re trysted with him for Aeneas Moylin’s house the morrow night at eight o’clock.” CHAPTER X