she had left four years ago, humble and unknown, and was now returning
to, garlanded with European recognition. It was all double-Dutch to
Mother Nolan. She put an end to it with her potent dose of quinine and
whiskey. She spent this night in her patient's room, keeping the fire
roaring and catching catnaps in a chair by the hearth; and the skipper
haunted the other side of the door. Toward morning the girl asked for a
drink, as sanely as anybody could, took it eagerly, and then sank into a
quiet sleep. The old woman nodded in her chair. The skipper tiptoed back
to the kitchen and flung himself across his bed.

After the fourth day of the fight against the fever Mother Nolan saw
that the struggle was likely to prove too much for her, if prolonged at
the present pitch, whatever it might prove for Flora Lockhart; so she
sent the skipper over to bring Mary Kavanagh to her. Now Mary was as
kind-hearted and honest as she was big and beautiful. Her mind was
strong and sane, and spiced with a quick wit. Her kindness and honesty
were spiced with a warm temper. She was human all through. As she could
flame to love so could she flame to anger. As she could melt to pity so
could she chill to pride. In short, though she was a fine and good young
woman, she wasn't an angel. Angels have their place in heaven; and the
place and duty of Mary Kavanagh was on this poor earth, where men's
souls are still held in shells of clay and wrenched this way and that
way by the sorrows and joys of their red hearts. Like most good human
women, Mary had all the makings of a saint in her; but heaven itself
could never make a sexless, infallible angel of her.

Mary told her father not to forget to keep the fire burning, threw a
blue cloak over her head and shoulders, and accompanied the skipper back
to Mother Nolan. Short as the distance was between the two dwellings she
glanced twice at her companion, with kindliness, inquiry and something