Moire looked up from her embroidery to gaze with pleasure about
the hall. It had never looked so nice in their mother’s time for she,
poor soul, had spent much of her life in her own rooms.

The stone floors were always well swept now, the rushes changed
weekly. The oak trestles were polished to a mellow golden hue,
reflecting the great silver candlesticks with their pure beeswax tapers.
The big brass andirons were filled with enormous oak logs, ready
to be lit when the evening arrived. Behind the high board, promi-
nently displayed, hung a large new tapestry depicting Saint Brendan
the Monk on a sky-blue background, guiding his ship across the
western seas. Anne had designed it, and had been working on it
almost every evening. of her married life. It had been a labor of love, for the second Lady O’Malley adored not only her bluff, big husband,
but their sons and their home as well.

Moire’s eyes lit upon several big colorful porcelain bowls filled
with roses. Their pungent, spicy scent gave the room a wonderful
exotic smell. Moire wrinkled her nose with pleasure and said to
Anne, “The bowls are new?”

“Aye,” came the reply. “Your father brought them back from his
last voyage. He is so good to me, Moire.”

“And why not?” demanded Moire. “You are good to him, Anne.”

“Where is Skye?” interrupted Peigi.

“Out riding with young Dom. I am surprised at your father in
pursuing this betrothal. They do not suit at all.”

“They were promised in the cradle,” explained Moire. “It wasn’t
easy for Da to find husbands for us all, for we’ve none of us large
dowries. Skye’s marrying the heir to the Ballyhennessey O’Flaherty’s
is the best match of us all.”

Anne shook her head. “I fear this match. Your sister is a very
independent girl.”

“And it’s all Da’s fault for he has spoiled her terribly,” said Peigi.
”She should have been married off two years ago at thirteen, like
the rest of us. But no, Skye did not want it. He lets her have her
way all the time!”