“Muireall.”
“I do not understand, Morag-my-heart,” I said. Even now, my hand shook because of these words: “and that woman, Morag, is you: and you know it.”
“Not now,” she answered, wearily. “I will tell you to-night: but not now.”
And so we went back together; she, too tired and stricken for tears, and I with so many in my heart that there were none for my hot eyes.
As we passed the byre we heard Kirsteen finishing a milking song, but we stopped when Maisie suddenly broke in, with her strange, wild, haunting-sweet voice.
I felt Morag’s fingers tighten in their grasp on my arm as we stood silent, with averted eyes, listening to an old Gaelic ballad of “Morag of the Glen.”
When Morag of the Glen was fëy
They took her where the Green Folk stray:
And there they left her, night and day,
A day and night they left her, fëy.