The light began to fade, the landscape to grow more obscure.  Suddenly Denis Donohoe broke into song.  They were going over a level stretch of ground.  The donkey walked quietly.  The quivering voice rang out over the darkening landscape, gaining in quality and in steadiness, a clear light voice, the notes coming with the instinctive intonation, the perfect order of the born folk singer.  It was some old Gaelic song, a refrain that had been preserved like the trunks of the primeval oaks in the bogs, such a refrain as might claim kinship with the Dresden Amen, sung by generations of German peasants until at last it reached the ears of Richard Wagner, giving birth to a classic.  As he sang Denis Donohoe raised his swarthy face, his profile sharp against the pale sky, his eyes, half in rapture like all folk singers, ranging over the hills, his long throat palpitating, swelling and slackening like the throat of a bird quivering in song.  Then a light from the sash-less windows of Mrs. Deely’s cabin shone faintly and silence again brooded over the place.  When he reached the cabin Denis Donohoe dismounted and walked into the kitchen, his eyes bright, his steps so eager that he became conscious of it and pulled up at once.

Mrs. Deely was sitting by the fire, her knitting needles busy.  Denis Donohoe sat down beside her.  While they were speaking a young girl came from the only room in the house, and, crossing the kitchen, stood beside the open fireplace.

“Agnes had great news from Australia from Mary,” Mrs. Deely said.  “She enclosed the price of the passage from this place to Sydney.”

“I will be making the voyage the end of this month,” the girl herself added.

There was an awkward silence, during which Mrs. Deely carefully piloted one of her needles through an intricate turn in the heel of the sock.

“Well, I wish you luck, Agnes,” Denis Donohoe said at last, and then gave a queer odd little laugh, a little laugh that made Mrs. Deely regard him quickly and seriously.  She noticed that he had his eyes fixed on the ground.

“It will be a great change from this place,” the girl said, fingering something on the mantelpiece.  “Mary says Sydney is a wonderful big city.”

Denis Donohoe slowly lifted his eyes, taking in the shape of the girl from the bare feet to the bright ribbon that was tied in her hair.  What he saw was a slim girl, her limbs showing faintly in the folds of a cheap, thin skirt, a loose, small shawl resting on the shoulders, her bosom heaving gently where the shawl did not meet, her profile delicate and faint in the light of the fire, her eyes, suddenly turned upon him, being the eyes of a girl conscious of his eyes, her low breath the sweet breath of a girl stepping into her womanhood.

“Well, God prosper you, Agnes Deely,” Denis Donohoe said after some time, and rose from his seat.

The two women came out on the road to see him off.  He did not dally, jumped on to the front of the cart and rattled away.