“I’m here, Norah,” said the young man, endeavouring by his voice to recall her straying fancy. “I’m here, Norah. I’m Dermod Flynn. Do ye know me now?”
There was no answer.
“Norah, do ye remember me?” Dermod repeated. “I am Dermod—Dermod Flynn. Say ‘Dermod’ after me.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him with a puzzled glance. “Is it ye indeed, Dermod?” she exclaimed. “I knew that ye were comin’ to see me. I was thinkin’ of ye often, and many’s the time I thought that ye were standin’ by me bed quiet like and takin’ a look at me. Ye’re here now, are ye? Say ‘True as death.’ ”
“True as death!”
“But where is Ellen?” she asked, “and where is the man that came here this mornin’, and left a handful of money to help us along? He was a good, kindly man; talkin’ about fives too, just the same as Micky’s Jim. Joe was his name.”
She paused.
“There were three men on the street and they made fun of me when I was passin’ them,” she went on. “Then they made a rush at me, threw me down and tramped over me. I was left on the cold streets, lyin’ like to die and no one to help me. ’Twas Ellen that picked me up, and she has been a good friend to me ever since; sittin’ up at night by my side and workin’ her fingers to the bone for me through the livelong day. Ellen, ye’re very good to me.”
“Ellen isn’t here,” Dermod said, the tears running down his cheeks. With clumsy but tender fingers he brushed back the hair from her brow and listened to her talk as one listens to the sound of a lonely breeze, the mind deep in unfathomable reflections.
Gourock Ellen entered the room and cast a curious look round. Seeing Dermod kneeling at the bedside the woman felt herself an intruder. She came forward, however, and bent over the girl, her shoulder touching the head of the young man.