Eveline

           Shesatatthewindowwatchingtheeveninginvadetheavenue.Herheadwasleanedagainstthewindowcurtainsandinhernostrilswastheodourofdustycretonne.Shewastired.

           Fewpeoplepassed.Themanoutofthelasthousepassedonhiswayhome;sheheardhisfootstepsclackingalongtheconcretepavementandafterwardscrunchingonthecinderpathbeforethenewredhouses.Onetimethereusedtobeafieldthereinwhichtheyusedtoplayeveryeveningwithotherpeople’schildren.ThenamanfromBelfastboughtthefieldandbuilthousesinit—notliketheirlittlebrownhousesbutbrightbrickhouseswithshiningroofs.Thechildrenoftheavenueusedtoplaytogetherinthatfield—theDevines,theWaters,theDunns,littleKeoghthecripple,sheandherbrothersandsisters.Ernest,however,neverplayed:hewastoogrownup.Herfatherusedoftentohunttheminoutofthefieldwithhisblackthornstick;butusuallylittleKeoghusedtokeepnixandcalloutwhenhesawherfathercoming.Stilltheyseemedtohavebeenratherhappythen.Herfatherwasnotsobadthen;andbesides,hermotherwasalive.Thatwasalongtimeago;sheandherbrothersandsisterswereallgrownuphermotherwasdead.TizzieDunnwasdead,too,andtheWatershadgonebacktoEngland.Everythingchanges.Nowshewasgoingtogoawayliketheothers,toleaveherhome.