TIME wore on and Norah lived for the most part in a world of fancy, spoke to imaginary individuals and at moments addressed Ellen as Sheila Carrol or as Maire a Glan. Sometimes she was gloomy and reserved, made folds in the sheet, murmured in an almost inaudible voice, and seemed to be calculating distances. The least movement of the left arm pained her and caused her to groan aloud. Now and again her eyes were dull, heavy, and glassy; at other times they were re-lit and sparkled like stars. She ate next to nothing; wrinkles formed round her eyes, her cheeks were sunken; she became the shadow, the ghost of her former self.

After a while the name of Dermod Flynn entered into her prattle; at first she spoke of him, eventually she spoke to him as if he were in the room. When her mind resumed its normal state all this was forgotten. Once Ellen spoke to her of Dermod Flynn.

“I would like to see him again, just once,” Norah said, then added: “I’m a heart-break to ye, Ellen; to everybody that I ever met. I’m like a little useless wean, useless, of no use at all.”

Acting on Norah’s wishes a priest was called in, heard Norah’s confession and administered the sacraments. This made the girl happy for many days. Ellen disliked priests, but never gave hint of her dislike to Norah.

“Ye’re sic a funny little thing,” she exclaimed more than once. “I took a fancy to ye when I saw ye for the first time that mornin’ on Greenock Quay along wi’ Dermod Flynn. He was a comely laddie, and I would like to see him comin’ here.”

“I wonder where’ll he be now?” said Norah.

“I wunner.”

II

SPRING was over the town. The sun shone almost daily through the window and rested on Norah’s bed; the birds twittered on the roof; their songs, even in the city slums, were filling the air.

Starvation was very near the two occupants of the room. They were three weeks behind with the rent, the landlord threatened to evict them; the grocer grumbled, the coal man would not supply coals. Added to this, Ellen had lost her job as charwoman in the school. The head-mistress, a dear old pious soul! had made enquiries into Ellen’s past life, and the result of the investigations was that the charwoman was told to leave the premises.

Ellen was thinking of these things one morning. Norah was tossing restlessly in the bed, when a knock came to the door.

“Come in!” Ellen cried.

A man entered, one hand deep in his trousers’ pocket, a worn cap set awkwardly on his shaggy head. He was a powerfully-built individual, broad-shouldered and heavy-limbed. He had not shaved for weeks; his beard stood out in sharp bristles from his jaw.

“Moleskin Joe, what d’ye want?” Ellen asked, her voice charged with resentment.

“Did ye know Dermod Flynn?” asked the man, gazing curiously at the woman tossing in the bed.

“I kent him.”

“I’m lookin’ for a wench—for an old sweetheart of his, so to speak,” said the man.

“It’s Dermod Flynn that he’s speakin’ about! D’ye know Dermod?” asked Norah, sitting up in bed and gazing intently at the stranger. Her cheeks flushed; all her young beauty seemed to have returned suddenly and settled in her face.

“It’s like this,” said the stranger, shuffling uneasily. “It’s like this: me and Dermod’s pals. We did graft together on many’s a shift, aye, and fought together too. And he can use his fives! Well, Dermod often told me about an old flame of his, called—her name was——”

“Norah Ryan,” said Ellen.

“That’s it,” said the man, looking at the girl in the bed. “Perhaps you’ll be her. If you are, you buckle on to Dermod. He’s one that any girl should be proud of; and he can use his fives! But women don’t understand these things.”

“Don’t they?” queried Ellen.

“Some think they do,” said the man. “Well, Dermod went to London and worked on a newspaper as a somethin’. Graft of that kind is not in my line, and the job wasn’t in Dermod’s line neither. He came back here to Glasgow, and he’s lookin’ for his old flame. I’m just helpin’ him.”

“Well, that’s the lass he’s lookin’ for,” said Ellen, pointing to the girl in the bed. “Now run awa’, Joe, and bring Dermod.”

“By all that’s holy! she’s a takin’ wench,” said the man, looking first at the girl, then at Ellen, then back to the girl in the bed again. “Well, I’d better be goin’,” he said.

“Ye’d better,” answered Ellen.

“Are ye well off here?” asked the man, who was apparently unperturbed by Ellen’s remark.

“Gey poorly,” said the woman; “we’ll soon hae a moonlight flittin’; that’s when we have anything to flit with.”

The man dived his hand into his trousers’ pocket, rattled some money, then as if a sudden thought struck him he went towards the door.

“Send Dermod at once, will ye?” asked Norah.

“I’ll do that,” said the man, then to Ellen: “I want to speak to you.”

She accompanied Moleskin out on the landing and closed the door behind her.

“Isn’t she a comely wench!” said the man.

“I know that. Is that all ye have to say to me?”

“Why is she in bed at this hour of the day?”

“She’s waitin’ for the meenit,” said Ellen in a low whisper. “She’ll maybe no’ last another twenty-four hours.”

“And she looks the picture of health!” said the man.

Ellen told of the assault on Norah, her narrative bristling with short, sharp, declamatory sentences. When she finished the man pulled some money from his pocket and put it into Ellen’s palm.

“Dermod’s my matey,” he explained apologetically. “I’ll bring the youngster here and we’ll be back in a jiffy. He’s lodgin’ near the wharf. And by heaven! we’ll cure the girl. She’ll be better in next to no time.”

Ellen shook her head sadly. “Lungs canna be put back again once they’re gone,” she said. “But hurry and bring Dermod Flynn here.”

The man turned and clattered downstairs.

III

“MOLESKIN Joe is an old friend of mine,” said Ellen, coming in and counting the money as she made her way towards the bed. “Thirty bob—two—two fifteen—three, three punds nine and sixpence!” she cried. “And Dermod will be here in a meenit.... My goodness! what’s gang wrang wi’ ye, child?”

Norah was lying unconscious on the bed, a stream of blood issuing from her lips. One pale white hand was stretched over the blue lettering of the blanket, the other was doubled up under her body.

“Poor Norah Ryan!” exclaimed Ellen, opening the window and drawing back the clothes from the girl’s chest. “It’s the excitement that’s done it.... Wake up, Norah! It’s me, Ellen, that’s speakin’ to ye. Ye ken me, don’t ye?”

She placed her hand on Norah’s breast. Although her hand had lost most of its delicacy of touch she could feel the heart beating faintly, almost like the wing of a butterfly flickering against the net in which it is imprisoned.

“She’ll be better in a wee meenit! There, she’s comin’ to. She’ll ken me as soon as she opens her eyes!” said Ellen, and she nearly cried with joy.

In a little while Norah recovered and looked round with large, puzzled eyes; then, as if recollecting something—

“Is he comin’?” she asked eagerly, but so softly that Ellen had to bend down to catch the words. “He was the kind-hearted boy, Dermod,” she went on. “I always liked him better than anyone, Ellen.... ’Twas the bad girl that I was ... and I’m a burden on ye more than on anyone else.”

“God send that I bear the burden for long and many’s a day yet,” said the woman. “Ye’ve been a guid frien’ to me, Norah, and I feel happy workin’ awa here by yer side. Ye’ll get better too, for when Dermod comes ye’ll be happy, and the happy live long.”

Norah put out her hand and grasped that of her friend. “God bless ye, Ellen,” she said. “Ye’ve been more’n a mother to me. But I’m not long for this world now. Something tells me that I’m for another place. I’m not afeared to die, Ellen; why should I? But sorrow is on me because I’m leavin’ you.”

The darkness fell; the two women were silent, their hands clasped tightly and their eyes full of tears. But with them was a certain strange happiness; one bright thought joined another bright thought in their minds just as the beams of a newly-lit fire join together in a darkened room.

Norah fell asleep. The lamp, which had become leaky, had now gone out. Ellen lit a candle, stuck it into the neck of a bottle and placed the bottle on the floor. The place looked desolate and forbidding; dead ashes lay in the fireplace; a pile of rags—Ellen’s bed—lay in the corner. There was no picture in the place, nothing to lessen the monotony save the little crucifix on the mantelpiece, and this relieving feature was a symbol of sorrow.

Ellen glanced at the sleeper. How strangely beautiful she looked now! It seemed as if something spiritual and divine had entered the body of Norah, causing her to look more like the creation of some delightful dream than an erring human being bowed with a weight of sorrow.

“I’ll go out and get some coals,” said Ellen, speaking under her breath. “Then we’ll have a cheerful fire for Dermod Flynn when he comes. He was sic a comely lad when in Jim Scanlon’s squad. And poor Norah! Ah! it’s sic a pity the way things work out in this life. There seems to be a bad management of things somewhere.”