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 sexless, infallible angel of her.

Mary told her father not to forget to keep the fire burning, threw a blue cloak over her head and shoulders, and accompanied the skipper back to Mother Nolan.  Short as the distance was between the two dwellings she glanced twice at her companion, with kindliness, inquiry and something of anxiety in her dark gray eyes.  But he stared ahead of him so intently, with eyes somewhat haggard from lack of sleep, that he did not notice the glances.  Mother Nolan welcomed her joyfully.

“Help me tend on this poor lamb from the wrack,” said the old woman, “an’ ye’ll be the savin’ of me life.  Me poor old eyes feels heavy as stove-lids, Mary dear.”

“Sure, I’ll help ye, Mother Nolan, an’ why not?” returned Mary, throwing aside her cloak from her smooth brown head and strong, shapely shoulders.  “Father kin mind himself, if he bes put to it, for a little while.  Now tell me what ye does for the lady, Mother Nolan, dear, an’ give me a look at her, an’ then pop into bed wid ye, an’ I’ll lay a bottle o’ hot water to yer feet.”

“Saints bless ye, me dear.  May every hair o’ yer darlint head turn into a wax candle to light ye to glory amongst the holy saints,” returned the old woman.

So it came about that Mary Kavanagh joined in the fight for the life of the girl from the wreck.  She stood her trick at Flora’s bed-side turn and turn about with the old woman, quiet as a fairy on her feet, though she was surely as big as a dozen fairies, quiet as a whisper with her voice, her hands as gentle as snow that falls in windless weather.  She did not worry about her father.  There was bread in the bin and fish in the shed for him, and he had his fiddle and his ballads.  Every evening, sometimes before and sometimes after supper, he came over and sat with the skipper, combing his long beard with his restless fingers, and telling improbable tales of his deep-sea voyages.