“Hold out your hand, Dermod Flynn,” he commanded and delivered four blows on the boy’s palm. Flynn held out his hand for a fifth slap: the master took no notice.
“Now, Norah Ryan, hold out your hand,” said the master. “Promptin’ is worse than tellin’ lies.”
Norah received two slaps, much lighter than those delivered to the boy. The master knew that she was going to be a nun one day, and he respected her accordingly, but not to such an extent that he could refrain from using the rod of correction.
Dermod Flynn turned and stared at Norah. A red blush mantled her cheeks, and she looked at him shyly for a moment; then her lashes dropped quickly, for she felt that he was looking into her very soul. He appeared self-possessed, impervious to the pain of the master’s chastisement. After a while Norah looked at him again, but he was gazing vacantly out of the window at a brook tumbling from the rocky hills that fringed the further side of the playground.
When school was dismissed and the scholars were on their way home, Dermod spoke to Norah.
“Why did you help me in the class to-day?” he asked.
She did not answer but turned away and stared at the stream falling from the dark rocks.
“It’s like white smoke against a black cloud,” he said following her gaze.
“What is?”
“The stream falling from the rocks.”