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THE RAT-PIT
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
"Have you your brogues, Norah?"
"They're tied round my shoulders with a string, mother."
"And your brown penny for tea and bread in the town, Norah?"
"It's in the corner of my weasel-skin purse, mother."
"The tide is long on the turn, so you'd better be off, Norah."
"I'm off and away, mother."
Two voices were speaking inside a cabin on the coast of Donegal. The season was mid-winter; the time an hour before the dawn of a cheerless morning. Within the hovel there was neither light nor warmth; the rushlight had gone out and the turf piled on the hearth refused to burn. Outside a gale was blowing, the door, flimsy and fractured, creaked complainingly on its leathern hinges, the panes of the foot-square and only window were broken, the rags that had taken their places had been blown in during the night, and the sleet carried by the north-west wind struck heavily on the earthen floor. In the corner of the hut a woman coughed violently, expending all the breath in her body, then followed a struggle for air, for renewed life, and a battle against sickness or death went on in the darkness. There was silence for a moment, then a voice, speaking in Gaelic, could be heard again.
"Are you away, Norah?"
"I am just going, mother. I am stopping the window to keep the cold away from you."
"God bless you, child," came the answer. "The men are not coming in yet, are they?"
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