Nora submitted to Biddy's ministrations. The room was lit by a small
dip candle, which was placed in an old tin candlestick on the
mantelpiece.

"Dear, dear! the light will be coming in no time, and we can quench
the glim then," said Biddy. "I've got to be careful about candles.
We're precious short of everything at Cronane just now. We're as
poor as church mice; it's horrid to be so desperately poor as that.
But, hurrah for the cold taters and bacon! We'll have a right good
meal. That will warm you up; and I have a little potheen in a black
bottle, too. I'll put some water to it and you shall have a drink."

"I never touch it," said Nora, shuddering.

"But you must tonight, or you'll catch your death of cold. There,
the best thing you can do is to get right into bed. Why, you're
shivering, and your teeth are chattering. It's a fine state Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan will be in tomorrow when you go back to her."

"I must not get ill, Biddy; that would never do," said Nora, pulling
herself together with an effort. "Yes, I'll get into bed; and I'll
take a little of your potheen--very, very weak, if you'll mix it for
me--and I'll have some of the bacon and potatoes. Oh! I would eat
anything rather than be ill. I never was really ill in my life; but
now, of all times, it would never do."

"Well, then, here you go. Tumble into bed. I'll pile the blankets on
you. Now, isn't that better?"