"Truly, love is best," Eilidh answered. "And because Isla loved me, I would that another Isla came into the world, and sang his songs--the songs that were so sweet, and the songs that he never sang, because I gave him death when I gave him life. But now he shall live again--and he and I shall be in one body, in him that I carry now." At that the woman understood, and said no more. And so the days grew out of the nights, and the dust of the feet of one month was in the eyes of that which followed after: and this until Eilidh's time was come. * * * * * Dusk after dusk, Ula that was Isla the Singer, waited by the Stone of Sorrow. Then a great weariness came upon him. He made a song there, where he lay in the narrow place: the last song that he made, for after that he heard no trampling of the hours. The swift years slip and slide adown the steep; The slow years pass; neither will come again. Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep, These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these plain, These have their lips acurl with proud disdain. O years with tears, and tears through weary years, How weary I who in your arms have lain: Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spears Moves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain, And the chill footless years go over me who am slain. I hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain, Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears: And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain, Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears, Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years. But, at the last, after many days, he stirred. There was a song in his ears. He listened. It was like soft rain in a wood in June. It was like the wind laughing among the leaves. Then his heart leapt. Sure, it was the voice of Eilidh! "_Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!_" he cried. But a great weariness came upon him again. He fell asleep, knowing not the little hand that was in his and the small flower-sweet body that was warm against his side. Then the child that was his looked into the singer's heart, and saw there a mist of rainbows, and midway in that mist was the face of Eilidh his mother. Thereafter the little one looked into his brain that was so still, and he saw the music that was there: and it was the voice of Eilidh his mother. And, again, the birdeen, that had the blue of Isla's eyes and the dream of Eilidh's, looked into Ula's sleeping soul: and he saw that it was not Isla nor yet Eilidh, but that it was like unto himself, who was made of Eilidh and Isla. For a long time the child dreamed. Then he put his ear to Isla's brow, and listened. Ah, the sweet songs that he heard. Ah, bitter-sweet moonseed of song! Into his life they passed, echo after echo, strain after strain, wild air after wild sweet air. "Isla shall never die," whispered the child, "for Eilidh loved him. And I am Isla and Eilidh."