Mikie smiled. “Sure, I suppose, Father, it’s because ye’re one of the family.”

Goodnight, groaned Father Conroy. He flung his arms up, acting out his despair. And with head bowed, he began to walk slowly across the yard as the calm voice of Kate sang out, “Have they come, Mikie? Bring them in.”

He paused, looking inquiringly at Mikie, who answered simply, “Yes.” Next moment, she came forth blindly into the light.

My sister, Kate! He always felt a twist of pain whenever he saw that vague, confident smile on her face as she stepped into a half-seen world. Had she never looked at herself, at her life here with Mikie? No, he told himself, watching her smile (she still hadn’t recognized him), she had never knowingly settled for this, she a girl who had been taught to speak French, to play the piano, crochet, make sauce tartare, and keep accounts for a doctor or a dentist.

“It’s you, Tom.” Not exactly disappointment – she liked him too well for that. Was it a slight anticlimax? Whom could she be expecting?

She kissed him on the cheek as he passed in; he had to pause to let her do it, but suffered it with a certain grudging pleasure. There was a dry, warm feel to her lips which reminded him of the chimney corner in the old home in Rosnagree, of children’s bodies pressed against his, washed and warm and ready for bed, of his father’s voice giving out the rosary from the depths of the big armchair.

“How are you, Kate?”

“Oh, sure, same as ever, Tom, pulling the divil by the tail,” and she laughed.

She was a fine-looking woman still, he noted with pride, her hair drawn back in an old-fashioned way that suited her – it was still brown, though she was a good deal older than he was. She was tall and moved slowly, as if allowing for a greater bulk than she had yet achieved. No, she was the same Kate, grown solidly all the way up out of his childhood. “Kate...” he began, then saw that Mikie was standing in the doorway behind her. “Well, Kate,” he said, turning away impatiently, “Here I am.”

“You didn’t have your dinner, Tom,” she announced in her stately way, “I suppose?”

That “I suppose?” brought Father Conroy up short. She usually issued the invitation when he was safely ensconced by the fire in the kitchen. Was it a hint that she didn’t want him today?

“No, I didn’t,” he said defiantly. And then he brought his hand to his head. “Damn it, the primus!”

She looked at him blankly.

“I left the kettle on for my breakfast.”

“Oh, well,” she said soothingly, “it’s too late now to have your breakfast. You’d better come on in, so.”