Dr. Thorne (gratefully). Thank you, Norah.
Norah. It’s to Purrgatory I’d be goin’. But you’re the herretic, Doctor. Which way do you be goin’?
Dr. Thorne (shakes his head). I don’t know, Norah. You are wiser than I am—in this foreign place.
Norah (holds down her hand). The dear Doctor! Ye were that kind to me, Doctor,—at the hospital, and forninst the house where I was worrkin’. It’s niver a cint I had to pay yez for yer thruble. If I’d been a pretty lady with a purrse of gold, ye never could have put yerself about more than ye did for the likes of me. It’s not meself that would have died the day if you’d been there. Doctor? Would yez mind, if I should—bless you, Doctor? There’s kindness onto kindness, and mercy goin’ after mercy that ye did me, all hidin’ in a poor girrl’s heart to rise and meet you here. I was sick an’ ye did visit me.
Dr. Thorne (melting). When did I ever show you all that kindness, Norah? I don’t remember—
Norah. And I don’t forget. Take my hand, now, Doctor, do. It must be lonesome down below there by yersel’. (Touches her rosary. Her lips move in prayer.)
Dr. Thorne (climbing on, grasps Norah’s hand). Thank you, Norah (gently).
(There is a lull in the storm. It grows lighter.)
(Dr. Thorne and the Irish girl climb on together silently.)
(It brightens at the brow of the mountain. Dim outlines of figures are faintly seen at the summit. They waver, and melt away.)