Paraig came out of the room.

You're found at last. Push on down with you,—but what's this? Where did you get that shirt, or why is it on you? What were you doing?

Paraig was standing in the door, like a stake. A shirt was fastened on him over his little coat. He looked down on himself. His face was red-burning to the ears.

I forgot to take it off me, mama, says he.

Why is it on you at all?

Sport I was having.

Take it off you this minute! The rod you want, yourself and your sport!

Paraig took off the shirt without a word and left it back in the room.

Brush down to the well now and get a can of water for me, like a pet. Nora already regretted that she spoke as harshly as that. It's a woman's anger that isn't lasting.

Paraig took the can and whipped off with it. Michileen Enda, a neighbour's boy, came in while he was out.

It beats me, Michileen, says Nora, after a spell, to make out what Paraig does be doing in that room the length of the evening. No sooner has he his dinner eaten every day than he clears off in there, and he's lost till supper-time.

Some sport he does have on foot, says Michileen.

That's what he says himself. But it's not in the house a lad like him ought to be stuck on a fine evening, but outside in the air, tearing away.

A body's will is his delight, says Michileen, reddening his pipe.

One apart is Paraig, anyhow, says Nora. He's the most contrary son you ever saw. Times, three people wouldn't watch him, and other times you wouldn't feel him in the house.

Paraig came in at this, and no more was said on the question. He didn't steal away this time, but instead of that he sat down on the floor, playing Fromsó Framsó with Maireen and Taimeen.

The dinner was on the table when Paraig came home from school the next evening. He ate his share of stirabout and he drank his noggin of milk, thankfully and with blessing. As soon as he had eaten and drunk, he took his satchel of books and west with him into the room, as was his habit.

The mother didn't let on that she was giving any heed to him. But, after a couple of minutes, she opened the door of the room quietly, and stuck the tip of her nose inside. Paraig didn't notice her, but she had a view of everything that was going on in the room.

It was a queer sight. Paraig was standing beside the table and he dressed in the shirt again. Outside of this, and back over his shoulders, he was fixing a red bodice of his mother's, that she had hanging on the wall. When he had this arranged properly, he took out the biggest book he had in his satchel—the it was, I believe—he opened it, and laid it before him on the table, propped against the looking-glass.

It's then began the antics in earnest. Paraig stood out opposite the table, bent his knee, blessed himself, and began praying loudly. It's not well Nora was able to understand him, but, as she thought, he had Latin and Gaelic mixed through other, and an odd word that wasn't like Latin or Gaelic. Once, it seemed to her, she heard the words Fromsó Framsó, but she wasn't sure. Whatever wonder was on Nora at this, it was seven times greater the wonder was on her when she saw Paraig genuflecting, beating his breast, kissing the table, letting on he was reading Latin prayers out of the and playing one trick odder than another. She didn't know rightly what he was up to, till he turned round and said: Dominus vobiscum!

God save us! says she to herself when she saw this. He's pretending that he's a priest and he reading Mass! That's the Mass vestment he's wearing, and the little Gaelic book is the book of the Mass!

It's no exaggeration to say that Nora was scared. She came back to the kitchen and sat before the fire. She didn't know what she ought to do. She was between two advices, which of them would be seemliest for her—to put Paraig across her knee and give him a good whipping, or to go on her two knees before him and beg his blessing!