The steak
lay in its bed of fat, scorching peacefully, while the tea boiled,
giving off a rank and herby smell.
"Pat doesn't get home to dinner, then, Norah?"
"There's times he does, but mostly not. They'd like a hot bite an' sup,
but it's too far off. There's five goes from here together, an' a
pailful for each--bread an' coffee mostly, an' a bit o' bacon for some.
It's a hot supper I used to be gettin' him, but the times is too hard,
an' we're lucky if we can have our tea an' bread, an' molasses maybe
for the children. Many's the day I wish myself back in old Ireland."
As she talked the children came rushing up the stairs, Norah the
second, pale-faced and slender, leading the way; and I took my leave,
burning to speak, yet knowing it useless. Fried boot-heel would have
been as nourishing and as tooth-some as that steak, and boiled
boot-heel as desirable and far less harmful a drink, yet any word of
suggestion would have roused the quick Irish temper to fever-heat.
"It's Norah can cook equal to myself," Norah had said with pride as she
emptied the black and smoking mass into a dish; and these methods
certainly cannot be said to be difficult to follow.
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