“Good-bye, Neil, son of the woman that was my friend. A south wind to you! Go up by the farm. In the front of the house you will see what you will be seeing. Maisie Macdonald will be there. She will tell you what’s for the telling. There is no harm in it, sure: sure, the dead are dead. It is praying for you I will be, Neil Ross. Peace to you!” “And to you, Sheen.” And with that the man went. * * * * * When Neil Ross reached the byres of the farm in the wide hollow, he saw two figures standing as though awaiting him, but separate, and unseen of the other. In front of the house was a man he knew to be Andrew Blair; behind the milk-shed was a woman he guessed to be Maisie Macdonald. It was the woman he came upon first. “Are you the friend of Sheen Macarthur?” she asked in a whisper, as she beckoned him to the doorway. “I am.” “I am knowing no names or anything. And no one here will know you, I am thinking. So do the thing and begone.” “There is no harm to it?” “None.” “It will be a thing often done, is it not?” “Ay, sure.” “And the evil does not abide?” “No. The … the … person … the person takes them away, and …” “_Them?_” “For sure, man! Them … the sins of the corpse. He takes them away; and are you for thinking God would let the innocent suffer for the guilty? No … the person … the Sin-Eater, you know … takes them away on himself, and one by one the air of heaven washes them away till he, the Sin-Eater, is clean and whole as before.” “But if it is a man you hate … if it is a corpse that is the corpse of one who has been a curse and a foe … if …” “_Sst!_ Be still now with your foolishness. It is only an idle saying, I am thinking. Do it, and take the money and go. It will be hell enough for Adam Blair, miser as he was, if he is for knowing that five good shillings of his money are to go to a passing tramp because of an old, ancient silly tale.” Neil Ross laughed low at that. It was for pleasure to him. “Hush wi’ ye! Andrew Blair is waiting round there. Say that I have sent you round, as I have neither bite nor bit to give.” Turning on his heel, Neil walked slowly round to the front of the house. A tall man was there, gaunt and brown, with hairless face and lank brown hair, but with eyes cold and grey as the sea. “Good day to you, an’ good faring. Will you be passing this way to anywhere?” “Health to you. I am a stranger here. It is on my way to Iona I am. But I have the hunger upon me. There is not a brown bit in my pocket. I asked at the door there, near the byres. The woman told me she could give me nothing--not a penny even, worse luck,--nor, for that, a drink of warm milk. ’Tis a sore land this.” “You have the Gaelic of the Isles. Is it from Iona you are?” “It is from the Isles of the West I come.” “From Tiree? … from Coll?” “No.” “From the Long Island … or from Uist … or maybe from Benbecula?” “No.” “Oh well, sure it is no matter to me. But may I be asking your name?”