It was what fathers did long ago, in Ireland, in the cottages of Derry Lane, in the townland of Pobble O’Keefe. “The babe has a gift, ’tis plain to see,” Granny O’Hara whispered, her blue eyes twinkling. Granny herself had “second sight,” which let her peek into the future. The six O’Hara boys gathered round their new sister. “One day this child shall hold the very heart of our family in the palm of her hand,” Granny predicted. So they named the infant Darcy Heart O’Hara. Now children were as plentiful in Pobble O’Keefe as the chickens that roosted in the thatched roofs up and down Derry Lane. But Darcy was different. She was a noticer. She stopped to notice small beauties wherever she went. “Darcy Heart O’Hara, how many times must you be told to milk the cow?” Granny would call from the half door. “Whatever are you doing while our Kathleen is waitin’ so patient?” “ ’Tis a grand sight I see, Granny,” Darcy would answer, pointing to a dew-covered spiderweb across her bucket’s rim.
