Norah put little Patsy down on the ground, whispering, "Patsy, dear, touch the good man's robe with your little hands. It will make ye a better boy."
Father Tom must have heard the whisper. He turned around and placed his hands on the baby's curly head. Then he made a short prayer and blessed him.
"I will take a sup of tea with you, Mrs. O'Neil," he said to Norah's mother. "I am quite tired, for I have walked all the way from my home this morning."
Mrs. O'Neil was much pleased. She hurried home, while the priest and children followed her more slowly.
As she hung the kettle over the fire and set the table for the priest's lunch, he gathered the children around him and told them stories of St. Patrick, the dearest of all saints to the Irish people.
It was a long, long time ago that the King of Ireland was holding a festival in the Hall of Tara.
"Put out all the fires," he had commanded his people. "Let no light be seen till a blaze bursts forth from the hill of Tara."
Not one of his subjects would have dared to disobey the king's command.