‘Wait for me there to-morrow. I must see you.’
‘I’ll wait,’ said Desmond. He looked again at Moya, who was crying unrestrainedly. ‘Poor soul!’ he said. ‘She seems to have a heavy grief.’
‘She has,’ said Peebles. ‘She’s lost all the folk she loves.’
‘Like me,’ sighed Desmond. ‘Well, well! “Though I lave thee for ever,”’ he began singing again as he turned away, till interrupted by the stranger’s voice.
‘Sir—Mr. Desmond!’ cried the woman suddenly, ‘they say that the blessing o’ one broken heart may help to heal the trouble of another. Will ye bend down in this holy place and take a poor creature’s blessing?’
‘Sure,’ said Desmond, ‘it’s only one blessing in the whole world that I seek, and that I can never have—the blessing of my own dead mother.’
‘Maybe it might come through me! I’m a mother, too!’
‘Humour her, laddie,’ said Peebles gently. ‘Humour her. Her sorrow’s great.’
Desmond took off his cap and knelt with bent head. It seemed long before the voice broke the solemn stillness, but when at last it was audible, it was strangely firm.
‘May the Lord watch over ye, now and for ever! May the mouth of the mother that bore ye spake through me, and bring ye happiness, health, and peace. May your days be long in the land, till you’re old and gray like me. But, oh, may ye never know my trouble or lose what I have lost. Amen! Amen!’