“She is my wife,” he answered firmly.
“She lived with Whelan.”
“She must be cared for,” was the reply. Pierre looked at him with a curious quietness. “I’ll get liquor for her,” he said presently. He started to go, but turned and felt the woman’s pulse. “You would keep her?” he asked.
“Bring the liquor.” Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the sleeve of his shirt in it, wetted her face gently.
Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that the woman would die. He stayed with Macavoy beside her all the night. Towards morning her eyes opened, and she shivered greatly.
“It’s bither cold,” she said. “You’ll put more wood on the fire, Tim, for the babe must be kept warrum.”
She thought she was at Malahide.
“Oh, wurra, wurra, but ‘tis freezin’!” she said again. “Why d’ye kape the door opin whin the child’s perishin’?”
Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shaking him.
“I’ll shut the door meself, thin,” she added; “for ‘twas I that lift it opin, Tim.” She started up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell back.