There was so very, very _much_ beauty--the sky, azure blue
overhead and paling where it touched the green-fringed earth; the
whispering tree under which she lay, the lush meadow grass, moving like
waves of a sea, the bird nesting above her, everything--
And Moira O'Donnell, who had never been farther than the boundaries of
her county, knew the whole world was beautiful, too.
Behind her, hid in a hollow, stood the small cottage where, at that very
moment, her grandmother was preparing the evening meal. And, beyond, in
the village was the little old stone church and Father Murphy's square
bit of a house with its wide doorstep and its roof of thatch, and Widow
Mulligan's and the Denny's and the Finnegan's and all the others.
Moira loved them all and loved the hospitable homes where there was
always, in spite of poverty, a bounty of good feeling.
And before her, just beyond that last steep rise, was the sea. She could
hear its roar now, like a deep voice drowning the clearer pipe of the
winging birds and the shrill of the little grass creatures. Often she
went down to its edge, but at this hour she liked best to lie in the
grass and dream her dreams to its lifting music.
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