“And Billy,” said David Linton, laughing. “Can’t you see his black face—and his grin!”
“Oh, and the great wide paddocks—the view from the verandah, across the lagoon and looking right over the plains! I don’t seem to have looked at anything far away since we came off the ship,” said Norah; “all the views are shut in by houses, and the air is so thick one couldn’t see far, in any case!”
“They tell me there’s clear air in Ireland,” said her father.
“Then I want to go there,” responded his daughter, promptly.
“Well—we might do worse than that. I’ve been thinking a good deal, Norah; if the boys don’t get well quickly—and I believe few of the gassed men do—we shall have to take them away somewhere for a change.”
“Certainly,” agreed Norah. “We couldn’t keep them in London.”
“No, of course not. Country air and not too many people; that is the kind of tonic our boys will want. What would you think of going to Ireland?”
Norah drew a long breath of delight.
“Oh-h!” she said. “You do make the most beautiful plans, daddy! We’ve always wanted to go there more than anywhere: and war wouldn’t seem so near to us there, and we could try to make the boys forget gas and trenches and shells and all sorts of horrors.”
“That’s just it,” said her father. “The wisest doctor I ever knew used to say that change of environment was worth far more than change of air; we might try to manage both for them, Norah. Donegal was your mother’s country: I’ve been meaning to go there. She loved it till the day she died.”