“Read it, dear,” she said simply. It was in pencil, and, strangely, was in the Gaelic: strangely, for though, when with Mr and Mrs Campbell, Morag and I spoke the language we all loved, and that was our own, Muireall rarely did. The letter ran somewhat thus: “MORAG-À-GHRAIDH, “When you get this I shall not be your living sister any more, but only a memory. I take the little one with me. You know my trouble. Forgive me. I have only one thing to ask. The man has not only betrayed me, he has lied to me about his love. He loves another woman. And that woman, Morag, is you: and you know it. He loved you first. And now, Morag, I will tell you one thing only. Do you remember the story that old Sheen McIan told us--that about the twin sisters of the mother of our mother--one that was a Morag too? “I am thinking you do: and here--where I shall soon be lying dead, with that silence within me, where such a wild clamouring voice has been, though inaudible to other ears than mine--_here, I am thinking you will be remembering, and realising, that story_! “If, Morag, _if_ you do not remember--but ah, no, we are of the old race of Siol Dhiarmid, _and you will remember_! “Tell no one of this, except F.--_at the end_. “Morag, dear sister, till we meet---- “MUIREALL.” “I do not understand, Morag-my-heart,” I said. Even now, my hand shook because of these words: “_and that woman, Morag, is you: and you know it_.” “Not now,” she answered, wearily. “I will tell you to-night: but not now.” And so we went back together; she, too tired and stricken for tears, and I with so many in my heart that there were none for my hot eyes. As we passed the byre we heard Kirsteen finishing a milking song, but we stopped when Maisie suddenly broke in, with her strange, wild, haunting-sweet voice. I felt Morag’s fingers tighten in their grasp on my arm as we stood silent, with averted eyes, listening to an old Gaelic ballad of “Morag of the Glen.” When Morag of the Glen was fëy They took her where the Green Folk stray: And there they left her, night and day, A day and night they left her, fëy. And when they brought her home again, Aye of the Green Folk was she fain: They brought her _leannan_, Roy McLean, She looked at him with proud disdain. “For I have killed a man,” she said, “A better man than you to wed: I slew him when he claspt my head, And now he sleepeth with the dead. “And did you see that little wren? My sister dear it was, flew then! That skull her home, that eye her den, Her song is, _Morag o’ the Glen_! “For when she went I did not go, But washed my hands in blood-red woe: O wren, trill out your sweet song’s flow, _Morag is white as the driven snow_!” II