When I reached her she looked up with a start. Ah, the pain of those tear-wet May-blue eyes—deep tarns of grief to me they seemed.
In her hand she clasped the letter that I had snatched for her.
“Read it, dear,” she said simply.
It was in pencil, and, strangely, was in the Gaelic: strangely, for though, when with Mr and Mrs Campbell, Morag and I spoke the language we all loved, and that was our own, Muireall rarely did. The letter ran somewhat thus:
“Morag-à-ghraidh,
“When you get this I shall not be your living sister any more, but only a memory. I take the little one with me. You know my trouble. Forgive me. I have only one thing to ask. The man has not only betrayed me, he has lied to me about his love. He loves another woman. And that woman, Morag, is you: and you know it. He loved you first. And now, Morag, I will tell you one thing only. Do you remember the story that old Sheen McIan told us—that about the twin sisters of the mother of our mother—one that was a Morag too?
“I am thinking you do: and here—where I shall soon be lying dead, with that silence within me, where such a wild clamouring voice has been, though inaudible to other ears than mine—here, I am thinking you will be remembering, and realising, that story!
“If, Morag, if you do not remember—but ah, no, we are of the old race of Siol Dhiarmid, and you will remember!
“Tell no one of this, except F.—at the end.
“Morag, dear sister, till we meet——