The woman turned eagerly.
‘Yes, sir!’ she cried. ‘I sent for you!’ ‘Good e’en t’ ye, whoever ye are,’ said Peebles. ‘I’m here at your service, though I ken little enough what it is ye want o’ me. ’Twas of Moya Macartney ye wanted to speak—the puir lassie that died lang syne?’
‘Of Moya Macartney, sure enough,’ answered the woman. ‘But she never died, sir. She’s alive this day, and nearer than ye think!’
‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed Peebles. ‘You say she’s living! Moya Macartney living?’
The woman turned her face to the moonlight, and let her shawl, which had hidden it, fall back upon her shoulders. The old man stepped nearer, peering on her with a look of mingled expectation, incredulity, and superstitious horror. The face was white, thin, and wrinkled, but he recognised it in a moment; and as the great black eyes dwelt on Peebles’ face, the thin lips murmured a name which struck on his astonished ears like a veritable echo from the grave.
‘Moya!’ he cried. ‘Moya Macartney! No! It can’t be!’
‘It is, sir,’ said Moya. ‘I’m Moya Macartney. Old and gray now, Mr. Peebles, but the same colleen ye knew once in Kenmare.’
The hidden listener raised his head cautiously.
‘Saints preserve us!’ he muttered, and taking advantage of Peebles’ wonder and consternation, crept nearer to him and his companion.
‘Meeracle of meeracles!’ cried the old man. He extended a trembling hand, and took that which Moya held out in answer. It was as real as, and warmer and steadier than, his own. ‘Ay! ye’re flesh and blood; but—what does it mean?’