Further off a light haze on the cliffs of the larger
island, and on the Connaught hills, gave me the illusion that it was
still summer.
A little boy was sent off to tell the old woman that I was coming,
and we followed slowly, talking and carrying the baggage.
When I had exhausted my news they told me theirs. A power of
strangers - four or five - a French priest among them, had been on the
island in the summer; the potatoes were bad, but the rye had begun
well, till a dry week came and then it had turned into oats.
'If you didn't know us so well,' said the man who was talking,
'you'd think it was a lie we were telling, but the sorrow a lie is
in it. It grew straight and well till it was high as your knee, then
it turned into oats. Did ever you see the like of that in County
Wicklow?'
In the cottage everything was as usual, but Michael's presence has
brought back the old woman's humour and contentment.
