At that moment the voice of old Mother Nolan sounded fretfully from the
next room.

"Denny! Cormy!" she called. "I bes fair perishin' to death in my bed.
The wind bes blowin' an' yowlin' t'rough this room like the whole end o'
the house was knocked out."

The skipper, who was as gentle with his old grandmother and as kind to
his young brother as the best man in the world could have been, crossed
the kitchen immediately and opened the door of the old woman's chamber.
Mother Nolan was sitting up in her bed with a blanket on her thin, bent
shoulders, and a red flannel night-cap on her gray head.

Her small face was pinched by cold and age, but her black eyes were
alive and erect.

"The mats be squirmin' and flappin' on the floor like live fish," she
exclaimed. "Saints presarve all poor creatures abroad this day on sea or
land! They'll be starved to death wid the cold, Denny, for bain't I most
blowed out o' my bed right in this grand house?"

The skipper realized that the room was colder than the middle apartment
of the cabin had any right to be. He went to the window and examined
it. The small frame was as tight in the wall as a dozen spikes and a
liberal daubing of tar could make it. It had never been opened since the
building of the house.

"The wind blows under Father McQueen's door like spray from the
land-wash," said the old woman.