“To be sure I will,” she said, “and with all the heart in the world.” She tore a long strip from the local paper, which was lying on a chair near by, twisted it, lit it in the fire, and then applied it to a candle.
“Only light one candle, for the love of heaven, child,” said the Squire. “I don't want to see too many of the fal-lals. Now then, that's better; bring the light up to the bed. Oh, what I have suffered with curtains, and carpets, and—-”
“It's too awful, father,” said Nora.
“That's it, child. That's the first cheery word I have heard for the last six weeks—too awful I should think it is. They are smothering me between them, Nora. I shall never get up and breathe the free air again; but when you came in you brought a breath of air with you.”
“Let's open the window. There's a gale coming up, We'll have some air,” said Nora.
“Why, then, Light o' the Morning, they say I'll get bronchitis if the window is opened.”
“They! Who are they?” said Nora, with scorn.
“Why, you wouldn't believe it, but they had a doctor down from Dublin to see me. I don't believe he had a scrap of real Irish blood in him, for he said I was to be nursed and messed over, and gruels and all kinds of things brought to my bedside—I who would have liked a fine potato with a pinch of salt better than anything under the sun.”
“You'll have your potato and your pinch of salt now that I am back,” said Nora. “I mean to be mistress of this room.”
The Squire gave a laugh.