“Divil take ye, Mrs. Nolan!” Mrs. McGonagle fairly bristled. “Is it help till carry it around ye’d be doin’?”
“Sure, I’m not sayin’ it’s true.”
“Ye had better luk at home,” muttered Mrs. Burns from amid her cloud of steam.
Larry was in the kitchen washing his hands at the sink. He had just been raking the fire so that it would burn brighter, and the remains of his breakfast still littered the table. Mary was in the adjoining room propped up by pillows in a big rocker; she had just awakened from a light sleep and had been watching his efforts, a faint smile upon her lips. When Rosie O’Hara came into the kitchen by the back door, Larry greeted her, ruefully.
“I’ve bin tryin’ to make the fire come up,” said he with a glance at the grey grate.
Rosie laughed. She set the steaming pitcher of broth, which she carried, upon the table.
“I’ve brought that for Mary,” said she, attacking the range with vigour; “I thought she might like it. How is she?”
“She had a bad night—had a hemorrhage after youse went home, and she don’t breathe very easy. She’s asleep now, though.”
“You mustn’t get frightened, Larry; the doctor says there’s no danger yet, you know.” Rosie tied an apron, which she took from a nail, about her trim waist. “I’ll wash these dishes for ye,” she said. “I couldn’t get in to get your breakfast, for Aunt Ellen kept me busy.”
“I burnt the steak to cinders,” said Larry forlornly, “and youse could cut the coffee in slices.”