seemed much cooler and better than she had since the early afternoon of
the previous day, he ate his breakfast and went out and sent all the
able-bodied men to get timber for Father McQueen's church, some from the
woods and others from the wreck. They would haul the timber after the
next fall of snow. But he did not go abroad himself. He hung about the
harbor all day, sometimes in his own kitchen, sometimes down on the
land-wash, and sometimes in other men's cabins. He put a new dressing on
the wound of the lad who had received the knife and paid another visit
to Dick Lynch. Lynch was still in bed; but this time he did not drag him
out on the floor.

Mother Nolan was full of common sense and wise instincts, in spite of
the fact that she believed in fairies, mermaids and the personal
attentions of the devil. She was doctor and nurse by nature as well as
by practice--by everything, in short, but education. So it happened that
she did not follow Pat Kavanagh's instructions to the letter. She argued
to herself that Pat's fever had been a hot-climate one, while Flora
Lockhart's was undoubtedly a cold-climate one. She saw that the girl's
trouble was a sickness, accompanied by high fever, brought on by cold
and exposure. So she did not give the quinine quite as generously as the
fiddler had recommended, and kept right on with her hot brews of herbs
and roots in addition. Instinct told her that if she could drive out the
cold the fever would follow it out of its own accord.

In the afternoon the girl became restless and highly feverish again, and
by sunset she was slightly delirious. She talked constantly in her
wonderful voice of fame, of great cities and of many more things which
sounded meaningless and alarming to Mother Nolan. For a little while
she thought she was on the _Royal William_, talking to the captain about
the great reception that awaited her in New York, her own city, which