As he spoke, he felt a small surge of relief. Her face was thinner, but she was still a beautiful woman, Black Irish beautiful, without a wrinkle on her smooth face or a white hair in her dark head. But he’d felt her bones when he had held her close. She, who had been so robust, had lost weight. Of course, she had been ill, and she had probably lost her appetite.

“Let’s not stand around here,” Eileen said, smiling up at Patrick, adoration reflected on her face. “Why don’t you take Blackie upstairs to his room, Patrick? And I’ll go and look in the oven. It’s time for tea.”

Pulling her to him, kissing her cheek, smoothing her jet-black hair with one hand, her husband smiled. His love for her flooded his blue eyes. “I’ll do that, my sweetheart, and what’s for tea? We haven’t eaten all day, except for the ham sandwiches.”

“Then I’ll have it ready in a jiffy. You must be ravenous.”

“I can’t wait!” Patrick picked up Blackie’s suitcase and said, “See that yon door, on the left, Blackie? Open it and go upstairs. That’s the bedroom floor above us.”

Blackie did as told, and bounded up the narrow stairs, actually covered in a patterned runner held down with brass rods. At the top he stood on an open landing waiting for his uncle to arrive.

“This is your room,” Patrick announced a moment later, leading the way. It was a small room, but Blackie liked it at once. There was a single bed along one wall, a chest of drawers against another, a rag rug on the wooden floor and a small polished desk under the window. It gleamed in the light of the gas lamp on the wall, and caught Blackie’s eye.

“I can see you like the room,” his uncle said, and placed the suitcase on the bed. “This door opens on a cupboard,” Patrick explained. “And your boots can go on the floor in there as well. I think you’ve plenty of space for your belongings, don’t you?”

“Oh, I do, I do, Uncle Pat. Lots. I don’t own much, ye know,” he confided, and sounded rueful as he spoke.

“You’re only thirteen, Blackie. I didn’t own much at your age either.” Walking over to the window, Patrick smoothed his hand over the desk. “I noticed you were impressed with this piece,” he said. “It shines in this way, looks extra glossy, because it’s been French polished. That’s a special method I will teach you later on.”

“It does look nice, Uncle Pat. And thank you for everything.” For once, words failed him.

“Pleasure, lad. Now, here is a lavatory and a bath.” He went out of the room.

Blackie sounded surprised when he said, “I’m used to an outhouse.” He followed his uncle as he spoke.