“What,” she asked herself, “if they should die without assistance?  In God’s name, and with his strength to aid me, I will run all risks, and fulfil the task I have taken upon me to do.  May he support and protect me through it.”

Thus resolved, and thus fortified, she entered the gloomy scene of sickness and contagion.

There were but four persons within:  that is to say, her lover, his sister Nancy, Mary the invalid, and Sarah M’Gowan.  Nancy and her brother were now awake, and poor Mary occupied her father’s arm-chair, in which she sat with her head reclined upon the back of it, somewhat, indeed, after his own fashion—­and Sarah opposite young Con’s bed, having her eyes fixed, with a mournful expression, on his pale and almost deathlike countenance.  Mave’s appearance occasioned the whole party to feel much surprise—­and Mary rose from her arm-chair, and greeting her affectionately, said—­

“I cannot welcome you, dear Mave, to sick a place as this—­and indeed I am sorry you came to see us—­for I needn’t tell you what I’d feel—­what we’d all feel,” and here she looked quickly, but with the slightest possible significance at her brother, “if anything happened you in consequence; which may God forbid!  How are you all at home?”

“We are all free from sickness, thank God,” said Mave, whom the presence of Sarah caused to blush deeply; “but how are you all here?  I am sorry to find that poor Nancy is ill—­and that Con has got a relapse.”

She turned her eyes upon him as she spoke, and, on contemplating his languid and sickly countenance, she could only, by a great effort, repress her tears.

“Do not come near us, dear Mave,” said Dalton, “and, indeed, it was wrong to come here at all.”

“God bless you, an’ guard you, Mave,” said Nancy, “an’ we feel your goodness; but as Con says, it was wrong to put yourself in the way of danger.  For God’s sake, and as you hope to escape this terrible sickness, lave the house at wanst.  We’re sensible of your kindness—­but lave us—­lave us—­for every minute you stop, may be death to you.”

Sarah, who had never yet spoken to Mave, turned her black mellow eyes from her to her lover, and from him to her alternately.  She then dropped them for a time on the ground, and again looked round her with something like melancholy impatience.  Her complexion was high and flushed, and her eyes sparkled with unaccustomed brilliancy.

“It’s not right two people should run sich risk on our account,” said Con, looking towards Sarah; “here’s a young woman who has come to nurse, tend and take care of us, for which, may God bless her, and protect her!—­it’s Sarah M’Gowan, Donnel Dhu’s daughter.”

“Think of Mave Sullivan,” said Sarah—­“think only’ of Mave Sullivan—­she’s in danger—­ha—­but as for me—­suppose I should take the faver and die?”

“May God forbid, poor girl,” exclaimed Con; “it would lave us all a sad heart.  Dear Mave don’t stop here—­every minute is dangerous.”