of anxiety in her dark gray eyes. But he stared ahead of him so
intently, with eyes somewhat haggard from lack of sleep, that he did not
notice the glances. Mother Nolan welcomed her joyfully.

"Help me tend on this poor lamb from the wrack," said the old woman,
"an' ye'll be the savin' of me life. Me poor old eyes feels heavy as
stove-lids, Mary dear."

"Sure, I'll help ye, Mother Nolan, an' why not?" returned Mary, throwing
aside her cloak from her smooth brown head and strong, shapely
shoulders. "Father kin mind himself, if he bes put to it, for a little
while. Now tell me what ye does for the lady, Mother Nolan, dear, an'
give me a look at her, an' then pop into bed wid ye, an' I'll lay a
bottle o' hot water to yer feet."

"Saints bless ye, me dear. May every hair o' yer darlint head turn into
a wax candle to light ye to glory amongst the holy saints," returned the
old woman.

So it came about that Mary Kavanagh joined in the fight for the life of
the girl from the wreck. She stood her trick at Flora's bed-side turn
and turn about with the old woman, quiet as a fairy on her feet, though
she was surely as big as a dozen fairies, quiet as a whisper with her
voice, her hands as gentle as snow that falls in windless weather. She
did not worry about her father. There was bread in the bin and fish in
the shed for him, and he had his fiddle and his ballads. Every evening,
sometimes before and sometimes after supper, he came over and sat with
the skipper, combing his long beard with his restless fingers, and
telling improbable tales of his deep-sea voyages.