But, Claire-Anne...."

"Come closer, Shane. The night is empty. There are only we two in the
world.... Come close. Closer. Closer still...."

Section 7

He was sitting in her garden one sunset, under the mulberry-tree, and
she had gone into the house for a minute, moving with the firm, gracious
walk of hers that was like the firm swimming of swans. In the little
hush of sunset, and she gone, there came a sudden knowledge to him....
For a space of time, how long he knew not, he was in an Antrim study....
Without, the sun had gone down, and there was the purple, twilight
water, and the gentle calling of the cricket.... And within was a gray
head that had fallen on a book ... fallen ... fallen as the sun went
down.

"Why, Uncle Robin!" he called.

Then came a great gush of tears to his heart and eyes....

She came from the house, as again he became cognizant of the Midi garden
instead of the Antrim glen, of the Mediterranean instead of the waters
of Moyle. She came down the dusky pathway. At a little distance she saw
his face. She stopped short, her face white....

"Shane! Shane! what is wrong? Are you hurt? Ill?"

"My Uncle Robin is dead, Claire-Anne."

She looked at him for a little instant, not quite understanding. She
came to him swiftly as a swallow. She sat close beside him. Her arm went
through his. Her hands clasped his hands.

"Why didn't you tell me, heart?" she whispered.

"I just knew this instant. I felt, saw.... We were that close ... my
Uncle Robin! _Beannacht De ar a anam!_ God's blessing on his soul!"

She never spoke. She never stirred. She hardly breathed. She was just
there, her hands, firm and strong, on his, did he want her.

"Was it ... a hard death, Shane?"

"No; I seemed to see him, asleep, among his books."

"His books were his friends ... you told me....

"Yes, dear. His life was with them."

"And he wasn't a young man, your Uncle Robin?"

"Eight and sixty years of age."

"Is it so ill, heart, to go quickly, quietly, with your friends about
you, on an autumn afternoon?"

"No, dear, not ill. Very rightly ... I think. But there is something....
Something is gone from the world, like a fine tree from a garden....
And he was awful' dear to me, my Uncle Robin.... It will be a hard thing
to go home, and he not there to come and ask: 'Are you all right,
laddie? You're no sick?' Claire-Anne, I'll be thinking long...."

She sat with him in silence in the garden, and after a lit