“And then send her to the convent like a lady.”
“When are you going to put the curragh out again?”
“Maybe this very night,” answered the husband. “It is now Michaelmas a week past. There were blue lights seen out beyond the bar last night, and a sea-gull dropped from the sky and fell dead on the rocks of Dooey. The same happened ten years ago, and at that time there was a big catch out by Arranmore.”
“Then you had better go out to-night, for there is not much money in the tea-pot this minute.”
“The byre cost a big penny,” said James Ryan, and he spoke as if regretting something.
“It did that, and the house does not look half as well with the cattle gone from it.” So saying the woman turned over some live turf on the pile of potatoes that was toasting beside the fire, and rising emptied part of the contents of a jug of milk into a bowl. “It is a wonder that Norah is not in,” she remarked. “She should be back from school over an hour ago.”
At that moment Norah entered, placed her cotton satchel and books on the window sill, and sat down to her meal. She was a winsome girl, neat, delicate and good-looking. She had grown taller; her tresses were glossier, her clear grey eyes, out of which the radiance of her pure soul seemed to shine, were dreamy and thoughtful. She was remarkable for a pure and exquisite beauty, not alone of body, but of mind. She was dressed in peasant garb, but her clothes, though patched and shabby, showed the lines of her well-formed figure to advantage. Her feet were small, an unusual thing amongst country children who run about bare-footed, and her dainty little hands matched her feet to perfection. Her accomplishments were the knowledge of a few Irish songs and country dances, and her intellectual gifts could be summed up in the words, simple innocence.
“Are you getting on well with your lessons, Norah?” asked the father.
Every day for the last two years, on her return from school, he asked a similar question and took no heed of the answer, which was always the same.
“He’s going out to the fishing to-night,” said the mother, handing a bowl of milk to Norah and pointing her finger at her husband.
“Any letter from Fergus?” asked the girl.
“Never a word,” said the mother. “Maybe one will be here to-morrow.”