II
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.
“I am getting on very well, father.”
“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.”
“To-morrow never comes,” said James Ryan. He had heard somebody use this phrase years ago and he repeated it almost hourly ever since. “It is off on the curragh that I am going now.”
He rose and went out. The dusk had fallen and a heaven of brilliant stars glittered overhead. A light gust of wind surged up angrily for a moment and swept along the ground, crooning amidst rock and boulder. Outside James Ryan stood for a moment and looked up at the sky, his thoughts running on the conversation which had just taken place inside. “To-morrow never comes,” he repeated and hurried towards the sea.