“Light the lamp, lass,” he said to me, in a hushed strange voice. Then he stooped and threw some small pine-logs on the peats, and stirred the blaze till it caught the dry splintered edges. Rory, poor blind beast, came wearily and with a low whine to his side, and then lay down before the warm blaze. “Bring the Book,” he said to me. I brought the great leather-bound Gaelic Bible, and laid it on his knees. He placed his hand in it, and opened at random. “With Himself be the word,” he said. “Is it Peace?” asked Aunt Elspeth in a tremulous whisper. “It is Peace,” he answered, his voice gentle, his face stern as a graven rock. And what he read was this, where his eye chanced upon as he opened at the place where is the Book of the Vision of Nahum the Elkoshite: “_What do ye imagine against the Lord? He will make a full end._” After that there was a silence. Then he rose, and told me to go and lie down and sleep; for, on the morrow, after dawn, I was to go with him to where Muireall was. I saw Aunt Elspeth rise and put her arms about him. They had peace. I went to my room, but after a brief while returned, and sat, in the quietness there, by the glowing peats, till dawn. * * * * * The greyness came at last; with it, the rain ceased. The wind still soughed and wailed among the corries and upon the rocky braes; with low moans sighing along the flanks of the near hills, and above the stony watercourse where the Gorromalt surged with swirling foam and loud and louder tumult. My eyes had closed in my weariness, when I heard Rory give a low growl, followed by a contented whimper. Almost at the same moment the door opened. I looked up, startled. It was Morag. She was so white, it is scarce to be wondered at that I took her at first for a wraith. Then I saw how drenched she was, chilled to the bone too. She did not speak as I led her in, and made her stand before the fire, while I took off her soaked dress and shoes. In silence she made all the necessary changes, and in silence drank the tea I brewed for her. “Come to my room with me,” she whispered, as with quiet feet we crossed the stone flags and went up the wooden stair that led to her room. When she was in bed she bade me put out the light and lie down beside her. Still silent, we lay there in the darkness, for at that side of the house the hill-gloom prevailed, and moreover the blind was down-drawn. I thought the weary moaning of the wind would make my very heart sob. Then, suddenly, Morag put her arms about me, and the tears streamed warm about my neck. “Hush, Morag-aghray, hush, mo-rùn,” I whispered in her ear. “Tell me what it is, dear! Tell me what it is!” “Oh, and I loved him so! I loved him!” “I know it, dear; I knew it all along.” I thought her sobs would never cease till her heart was broken, so I questioned her again.