She heard the wicket-gate close, and in her heart she knew that she would never again see him. No gray eyes any more, nor curly hair. Her face had become now a white and quivering mask. She snatched a cloak up and, wrapping it round her, she went blindly into the garden.  
She began to shake with great silent sobs. Her face was wet now, and she could n't see. She sank at the roots of the mountain-ash.
 
"Rowan-tree, rowan-tree!" she cried, "I shall never see him any more!"
 
And as she sobbed, a little breeze came from the Three Rock Mountain, and all the trees in the garden murmured gently. The great ash unbent, the elm swayed, and the little apple-trees nodded with compassion. All the shrubs in the garden rustled.
 
Hush—hush! Hush—hush! Hush—hush!
 
"Oh, rowan-tree! rowan-tree!"
 
Hush—hush! Hush—hush!
 
The moon came gently fr............