"'Thou shalt come later'; sure now, dear, there is no meaning in that! Oona, my bonnie, lie down; lie down, wee lassie, and sleep, and sleep!"
But even as he spoke, he saw a change in her face. It was like moonshine suddenly moving on dark water.
He caught fragmentary words ... suain ... sìth ... and then, with "sleep" and "peace" still on her lips, she lay back, smiling.
Slowly and soundlessly he approached the bed. In the intense stillness he heard his breath going like the slow, heavy beat of a heron's wing. Outside, the baying of the dog had suddenly ceased.
She was asleep, or nigh so. He stooped and kissed the yellow tangles that overspread the pillow.
Her lips moved.
What was the thing she whispered? He could not hear; ah, she was murmuring it again: "... anail ... breath of ... breath of a...."
"Hush-sh-sh, birdeen," he whispered low; then, seeing that her lips again muttered drowsily, he put his ear to them.
"And then ... she ... smiled ... and said: Do not ... fear! (a pause, a sigh) ... sacred is the ... breath ... the breath of ... a mother."
The child slept. He stole back to the ingle. There was peace now; even the wind, though it moaned and swelled more and more loudly, was as a soothing song.