“The O'Shanaghgans' Banshee,” said Biddy, glancing at Nora, whose face did not change a muscle, although the brightness and wistfulness in her eyes were abundantly visible. She was saying to herself:
“I would give all the world to speak to the Banshee alone—to ask her to get father out of his difficulty.”
She was half-ashamed of these thoughts, although she knew and almost gloried in the fact that she was superstitious to her heart's core.
She and Biddy soon entered the house by the back entrance, and ran up some carpetless stairs to Biddy's own room. This was a huge bedroom, carpetless and nearly bare. A little camp-bed stood in one corner, covered by a colored counterpane; there was a strip of carpet beside the bed, and another tiny strip by a wooden washhand-stand. The two great parliament windows were destitute of any curtain or even blind; they stared blankly out across the lovely summer landscape as hideous as windows could be.
It was a perfect summer's evening; but even now the old frames rattled and shook, and gave some idea of how they would behave were a storm abroad.
Biddy, who was quite accustomed to her room and never dreamed that any maiden could sleep in a more luxurious chamber, crossed it to where a huge wooden wardrobe stood. She unlocked the door, and took from its depths a pale-blue skirt trimmed with quantities of dirty pink flounces.
“Oh, you are not going to put that on,” said Nora, whose own training had made her sensitive to incongruity in dress.
“Yes, I am,” said Biddy. “How can I see your lady-mother in this style of thing?”
She went and stood in front of Nora with her arms akimbo.
“Look,” she said, “my frock has a rent from here to here, and this petticoat is none of the best, and my stockings—well, I know it is my own fault, but I won't darn them, and there is a great hole just above the heel. Now, this skirt will hide all blemishes.”