“That is unfortunate.”
“Oh, thin, ye may well say that. Anither mouth in a family like me own is far from convenient whin the cost of the mate and the flour is beyond raach intirely.”
“Well, Biddy, Miss Annie wants some one to wait on her in the place of Jessie, who has gone. She has taken a fancy to try your girl. When can she come?”
“Coom! Why, this very hour, an’ ye like. A blessin’ on yer swate, pale face!” said Biddy, looking pityingly towards Annie.
“She must be gentler here,” said Mrs. Lee; “she must govern her temper. Miss Annie must not be excited and made worse by your girl’s fits of ill-humour.”
“Leave her to me, mamma,” said Annie. “I think, Mrs. Dillon, that there will be no trouble. What did you say is her name?”
“Annorah, an’ ye plaze, miss.”
“Annorah? Very well. When shall she come, mamma?”
“Not until Monday, I think,” replied Mrs. Lee. Then turning to Mrs. Dillon, she added, “You may send her on Monday.”
“An’ she gets a mad streak along o’ that pritty crathur,” said Mrs. Biddy, as she went down-stairs, “she desarves the warm bating she’ll get from her own mother at home.”
CHAPTER II
ANNORAH’S FIRST APPEARANCE IN THE SICK-ROOM
Monday came, and Annorah came too. It was with a doubting heart and a troubled look that Mrs. Lee introduced her into her daughter’s chamber. It would be difficult to find a plainer-looking or a more awkward girl.
Mrs. Lee looked at the monstrous foot in its heavy shoe, and at the thick, freckled hands, that seemed incapable of the gentle services that Annie’s helplessness required, and wondered at her own folly in indulging the singular caprice of her daughter. But a single look at Annie assured her that she, at least, felt no misgivings. Still, she did not like to leave them by themselves until she had tested the new attendant’s ability.
“Annorah,” she said, “what sort of work can you do? I’m afraid you are not used to such services as Miss Annie will require.”
“I can do most anything, ma’am,” answered the girl resolutely.
“Indeed! Well, let me see how you would manage to place Annie on the bed when she is tired of the sofa.”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth before Annorah had lifted the frail form of the invalid in her arms and deposited her in the middle of the bed. Annie burst into such a laugh as she had not indulged in for a year.
“I think you may be satisfied, mamma,” she said; “I never was moved easier.”
Mrs. Lee began to think better of Annie’s plan, and joined quite cordially in her daughter’s mirth.
“And if she were too tired to rest in any position, what would you do?”
“Carry her to the windows, or out in the air, for a change.—Will ye plaze to thry it, Miss Annie?”
“Not now, Annorah.” Then looking towards her mother, she said, “Mamma, you may be easy; Annorah and I shall get on famously together.”
Thus assured, Mrs. Lee left them, and went down-stairs with a better opinion of the rough Irish girl than she had thought it possible to entertain an hour previous.
Left by themselves, the two girls began to form an acquaintance with each other. Two persons more unlike could not have been brought together. Annorah was evidently much interested in her young charge, and felt the most unbounded sympathy in her sufferings. Annie spoke first.
“Please draw my couch nearer the window, Annorah. That will do. Now, sit down on this low stool, and tell me how long it is since you left Ireland.”
“It’s two years, miss, coom April.”
“So lately? Then you remember all about the old country?”
“Remember! An’ it’s me that’ll niver forget that same. The beautiful counthree it is!”
“Pleasanter than this, do you think?”
“A thousand times. There is no place in the world like it; the dear ould counthree!”
“Why, then, did you leave it, Annorah?”
“Bad luck we had, miss; and a worse luck intirely here, the mane town that this is.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“What for? That ye, too, may laugh like the rest, and call us the mane, dirty set of Irish vagabonds?” asked the girl, her small eyes kindling with a sense of imaginary insult.
“No, no, Annorah. You don’t think I would say such things, do you? But you need not tell me a word if you had rather not. I only thought it would make me forget my pain for a little time; and, besides, I love dearly to hear about Ireland, or any place where I have never been,” said Annie, with a tone of voice so calm and earnest that the girl could not doubt her sincerity.
“Do you, in truth? Why, thin, it’s me that’ll talk till I hoarse meself dumb for yer good. It was the famine, miss, that came first, and stole the bit o’ food that was saved. The praties were rotten in the field; and the poor pigs starved that should have helped us out wi’ the rint. Och, but it was a sore time o’ grief whin sorra a mouthful were left for the bit childer and the ould people who were weak before wi’ ould age! In the worst time o’ all, whin the need was the sorest, our Bessie got into disgrace, and came home from service wi’ niver a penny to help herself or us. There was nought to do and nought to eat at all. The neighbours were faint wi’ the hoonger; and so, before the worst came, we left all that was dear and came here.”
“How many of you came, Annorah?”
“Nine, miss, if we consider our uncles and cousins. We did not come altogether; brother John, who is dead, and uncle Mike, came first. And a fine chance to work they got directly, miss; and then they sent money to pay the old folk’s passage. Our hearts gathered coorage and strength at once, miss, and we thought, shure, the great throubles were over. But the next vessel brought the bad news for us, and we forgot the glimmer of hope we had; for it was our own father dear who was dead o’ the cholera.”
“Poor Annorah!” exclaimed Annie pityingly.
“Poor indade! But soon came the money for the rest; and much as we feared the deep wathers, the hoonger still pressed on us, and the sickness was every day striking down the stoutest, and so we all left Ireland but Bessie.”
“Did you like the passage across from Ireland?”
“No, indade.”
“Were you sea-sick?”
“No, miss. But we came in the steerage; and a crowded, dirthy place it was. The dirt was not so bad, for in the ould counthree it ofttimes gets the betther o’ us; but the men were either drunk or ill-nathured, and the women quarrelled, and the young ones were aye cross or sick; and a bad time they made of it all.”
“Did you come directly here?”
“No; we stayed where we landed for seven weeks, till we got word to our cousin.”
“And since you have been here, Annorah, what have you been doing? Have you been to school?”
“No; the praste forbade.”
“Poor thing! Then you cannot read?”
“How should I know reading, I’d like to know? Who would teach me that same?”
“Many good people would like to do it, if you would like to learn.”
“I’m ower knowin’ for that, miss,” replied Annorah, with a glance which betrayed that she was rather suspicious of Annie’s good intentions. “It’s a mighty pity that readin’ was contrived at all, for it’s the books that makes the black heretics o’ us. ‘Let alone the books and the readin’,’ said Father