“I don’t want you to be running after me,” began Francie humbly.
“Faith thin that’s the truth!” returned the inexorable Norry; “if ye have thim off’cers running afther ye ye’re satisfied. Here, give me the bowl till I butther it. I’d sooner butther it meself than to be lookin’ at ye doin’ it!”
A loud cough, coming from the scullery, of the peculiarly doleful type affected by beggars, momentarily interrupted this tirade.
“_Sha’se mick_, Nance! Look at that, now, how ye have poor Nance the Fool waitin’ on me till I give her the empty bottle for Julia Duffy.”
Francie moved towards the scullery door, urged by a natural curiosity to see what manner of person Nance the Fool might be, and saw, squatted on the damp flags, an object which could only be described as a bundle of rags with a cough in it. The last characteristic was exhibited in such detail at the sight of Francie that she retired into the kitchen again, and ventured to suggest to Norry that the bottle should be given as soon as possible, and the scullery relieved of Nance the Fool’s dreadful presence.
“There it is for her on the dhresser,” replied Norry, still furiously whipping the eggs; “ye can give it yerself.”
From the bundle of rags, as Francie approached it, there issued a claw, which snatched the bottle and secreted it, and Francie just caught a glimpse, under the swathing of rags, of eyes so inflamed with crimson that they seemed to her like pools of blood, and heard mouthings and mumblings of Irish which might have been benedictions, but, if so, were certainly blessings in disguise.
“That poor craythur walked three miles to bring me the bottle I have there on the dhresser. It’s yerr’b tay that Julia Duffy makes for thim that has the colic.” Norry was softening a little as the whites of the eggs rose in stiff and silvery froth. “Julia’s a cousin of me own, through the mother’s family, and she’s able to docthor as good as e’er a docthor there’s in it.”
“I don’t think I’d care to have her doctoring me,” said Francie, mindful of the touzled head and dirty face that had looked down upon her from the window at Gurthnamuckla.
“And little shance ye’d have to get her!” retorted Norry; “’tis little she regards the likes o’ you towards thim that hasn’t a Christhian to look to but herself.” Norry defiantly shook the foam from the birch rod, and proceeded with her eulogy of Julia Duffy. “She’s as wise a woman and as good a scholar as what’s in the country, and many’s the poor craythure that’s prayin’ hard for her night and morning for all she done for thim. B’leeve you me, there’s plinty would come to her funeral that’d be follyin’ their own only for her and her doctherin’.”