lora
Lockhart's was undoubtedly a cold-climate one. She saw that the girl's
trouble was a sickness, accompanied by high fever, brought on by cold
and exposure. So she did not give the quinine quite as generously as the
fiddler had recommended, and kept right on with her hot brews of herbs
and roots in addition. Instinct told her that if she could drive out the
cold the fever would follow it out of its own accord.

In the afternoon the girl became restless and highly feverish again, and
by sunset she was slightly delirious. She talked constantly in her
wonderful voice of fame, of great cities and of many more things which
sounded meaningless and alarming to Mother Nolan. For a little while
she thought she was on the _Royal William_, talking to the captain about
the great reception that awaited her in New York, her own city, which
she had left four years ago, humble and unknown, and was now returning
to, garlanded with European recognition. It was all double-Dutch to
Mother Nolan. She put an end to it with her potent dose of quinine and
whiskey. She spent this night in her patient's room, keeping the fire
roaring and catching catnaps in a chair by the hearth; and the skipper
haunted the other side of the door. Toward morning the girl asked for a
drink, as sanely as anybody could, took it eagerly, and then sank into a
quiet sleep. The old woman nodded in her chair. The skipper tiptoed back
to the kitchen and flung himself across his bed.

After the fourth day of the fight against the fever Mother Nolan saw
that the struggle was likely to prove too much for her, if prolonged at
the present pitch, whatever it might prove for Flora Lockhart; so she
sent the skipper over to bring Mary Kavanagh to her. Now Mary was as
kind-hearted and honest as she was big and beautiful. Her mind was
strong and sane, and spiced with a quick wit. Her kindness and honesty
were spiced with a warm temper. She was human all through. As she could
flame to love so could she flame to anger. As she could melt to pity so
could she chill to pride. In short, though she was a fine and good young
woman, she wasn't an angel. Angels have their place in heaven; and the
place and duty of Mary Kavanagh was on this poor earth, where men's
souls are still held in shells of clay and wrenched this way and that
way by the sorrows and joys of their red hearts. Like most good human
women, Mary had all the makings of a saint in her; but heaven itself
could never make a