"I've the loaf that I bought in the shop at Knockbeg, and the half loaf that you took out of the woman's window—it's fresher than the other one."
"I was guided," said her father. "We'll eat that one first the way no person can claim it. What else have you got?"
"I've the white turnip that I found in a field."
"There's great nourishment in turnips; the cattle do get fat on them in winter."
"And I've the two handfuls of potatoes that you gathered at the bend of the road."
"Roast themselves in the embers, for that's the only road to cook a potato. What way are we going to eat to-night?"
"We'll eat the turnip first, and then we'll eat the bread, and after that we'll eat the potatoes."
"And fine they'll taste. I'll cut the turnip for you with the sailorman's jackknife."
The day had drawn to its close. The stars had not yet come, nor the moon. Far to the west a red cloud poised on the horizon like a great whale and, moment by moment, it paled and faded until it was no more than a pink flush. On high, clouds of pearl and snow piled and fell and sailed away on easy voyages. It was the twilight—a twilight of such quietude that one could hear the soft voice of the world as it whispered through leaf and twig. There was no breeze to swing the branches of the trees or to creep among the rank grasses and set them dancing, and yet everywhere there was unceasing movement and a sound that never ceased. About them, for mile upon mile, there was no habitation of man; there was no movement anywhere except when a bird dipped and soared in a hasty flight homewards, or when a beetle went slugging by like a tired bullet.