CHAPTER XXVII
THE NEW-COMER
I
THREE weeks, laggard and leaden in movement, passed away. It was late evening; nine o’clock was just striking, and Sheila, true to her usual habit, counted the strokes aloud.
“The clock goes faster now than it did the first night I was here,” she said. “I suppose they’ll all be goin’ to bed in Frosses now, or maybe sayin’ the rosary. Are ye tired, Norah?” she suddenly asked her companion.
“No, not tired, only....”
“Maybe ye would like to go to bed,” said Sheila, anticipating Norah’s desires and looking very wise.
“I think that.... Oh! it’s all right,” answered Norah, an expression of pain passing across her face.
“I know,” said Sheila, laying down her scissors and stirring up the fire, which was brighter than usual. “Ye must go to bed now and keep yerself warm, child. Ye’ll be all right come the mornin’.”
“I’m very unwell, Sheila. I feel.... No, I’m better again,” said Norah, making a feeble attempt to smile and only succeeding in blushing.
She undressed to her white cotton chemise, lay down, and Sheila gathered the blankets round the young woman with tender hands. Norah appeared calm, her fingers for a moment toyed with the tresses over her brow, then she drew her hand under the blankets. Her face had taken on a new light; the cold look of despair had suddenly given place to a new and nervous interest in life and in herself. It seemed as if things had assumed a new character for her; as if she understood in a vague sort of way that a woman’s life is always woven of dreams, sorrow, love, and self-sacrifice. She was now waiting almost gladly, impatient for the most solemn moment in a woman’s life.