The knowledge thrilled her.

She did not know why.
By the time the old wistaria vine outside her window shook in the wind with a glory of purple, the over-crowded days were gliding one into the other like a rain of stars.

Most of all, wakeful in the dark of her room, she remembered the hours by the river when Kenny wove for her high, peaked hats of rushes such as he claimed the Irish fairies wore, and told her tales of Ireland with a trick of eloquence that made her laugh and made her cry.

Odd! unlike her uncle he understood tears too.

A tear, he said, was always trailing an Irishman's smile.