I didn’t press him further.

“So will you come with me next week?” he said again.

“I will,” I said.

* * *

By July, the heat was beginning to take its toll on me. The pavement almost singed my feet, and by the time I got home, my damp clothes were stuck to me. I found myself longing for the green hills of Donegal, where the sun shone gently and rain showers refreshed the soul.

After three months in New York, I believed I should have got over my homesickness. But then an image would enter my mind, or a smell waft around me, and I would be back in Donegal, working on the farm with Da in companionable silence. What I missed most, though, was the sanctuary of the ring of white stones where I often went to find peace, sitting among them while a fresh breeze played with my hair.

When I thought of young Lily, though, my homesickness faded. She had become very attached to me. She followed me everywhere. If I disappeared up to my room for a few minutes, she would burst in, panic on her tiny face. I suppose she was afraid I had left her. In those moments, I would reach out to her and give her a hug. “I’m not going anywhere, love,” I would say, and she would clutch me hard.

Often, she sat at the kitchen table drawing pictures. Over and over she would draw a log cabin, or a man with a hat riding a horse under a blazing sun, or odd-looking plants with pointy leaves. When I asked her about them, she would bow her head, put down her crayons and leave the table.

“I think she’s pining for Texas, poor wee mite,” Mrs. Donahue said. “It was where she was born, ye know.”

She sighed. “Sure, we all feel a tug back to the place we were born. ’Tis our real home, after all.”

Mrs. Donahue explained that Aidan O’Hanlon and his wife, Mary, had lived in Texas for a while, and that Lily had spent a few years there.

For the rest of that summer, Lily and I spent many happy days together—walking in the park under the shade of giant oak trees, sitting by the pond feeding the ducks or wandering through a museum admiring the paintings. Lily seemed to love the museums, often pulling me by the hand up the steps if we were passing one. Inside, she would sometimes linger in front of a picture, her eyes wide and a hint of smile on her face.

“I’m very pleased to hear from Mrs. Donahue you’ve been taking Lily to museums and galleries to look at paintings. I think that art contributes greatly to a child’s education.”

I was in the library late one evening when I heard Aidan O’Hanlon’s voice behind me. I turned around, nervous but excited at the thought of seeing him again.