“Now fling the window wide open; let me get a breath of air.”
Nora did open the window, but the air was moist and damp from the Atlantic, and even she, fearless as she was, hesitated when she heard her father's cough.
“There, child, there,” he said; “it's the lungs beginning to work properly again. Now then, you can shut it up; I hear a step. For Heaven's sake, Nora, be quick, or your mother may come in, and won't she be making a fuss! There, unlock the door.”
“But you are worse, father; you are worse.”
“What else can you expect? They don't chain up wild animals and expect them to get well. I never lived through anything of this sort before, and it's just smothering me.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan entered the room.
“Patrick,” she said, “would you like some sweetbread and a bit of pheasant for your dinner?”
“Do you know what I'd like?” roared the Squire. “A great big mealy potato, with a pinch of salt.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan uttered a sigh, and the color rushed into her pale cheeks.
“Upon my word,” she said, “you are downright vulgar.”