Norah was a protégée of the Mahonys as well as the O'Haras, and thought nothing of walking from one estate to the other. She crouched motionless in the long grass, scarcely daring to breathe or discover her vicinity in any way, until Biddy's heartbroken moan reached her ears.
Uncontrollable pity then overcame all other feelings. Her child, her darling was unhappy. Come what might, Norah must comfort her.
"Eh, mavourneen?" she said then. "Core of me heart, you're in throuble! What can Norah do for yez?"
"I am unhappy, Norah!" said Bridget. She sprang out of the oak tree as she spoke. "O Norah, Norah!" she exclaimed, clasping the old servant's horny hand; "don't tell anyone—don't, don't for the life of you, Norah; but I hate Janet May."
"That young Englisher colleen?" said Norah, her eyes flashing angry fire. "Eh, but she's a cowld-hearted foreigner. Eh, but it isn't me nor Pat nayther that's took with her ways."
"It's dreadful of me to say anything," continued Bridget. "She's my visitor, and I have told you that I hated her. Forget it, Norah—forget it."
"Secret as the grave I'll keep it," replied Norah, with emphasis.
Bridget ran back to the house, and the old servant, with a certain stealthy movement, which was more or less habitual to her, glided away through the long grass. She walked two or three hundred yards in this fashion, then she came to a stile which led directly to the dusty and forsaken highroad. Here Norah stooped down and carefully removed her thick hobnailed shoes and coarse, gray woolen stockings. She thrust the stockings into her capacious pocket, and tying the shoes together with a coarse piece of string, slung them over her arm. After this, she kilted her petticoats an inch or two higher, and the next moment began to run swiftly and silently over the dusty road. Her movements were full of ease, and even grace. Her bare feet quickly covered the ground.
She ran with a certain swing, which did not abate in speed as she flew over the road. Mile after mile she went in this fashion, never once losing her breath, or appearing in the least inconvenienced by her rapid motion. At last she turned up a narrow mountain path. Here the ground was very rough, and she was obliged to go slowly, but even here her bare feet carried her with unerring surety. She neither slipped nor stumbled, and never once faltered in her swift upward course.
After going up the mountain for nearly half a mile, she came suddenly upon the little shanty or mud hut where Pat, the boy whom Norah loved, lay flat on his back on a rude bed of straw.