She goes towards the poor girl with a small basin of good broth and a plate of toasted bread, such as might tempt the palate of a more dainty invalid; whilst the servant places a can of real Welsh broth, smelling strongly of the country emblem, the leek, in the midst of the hungry crew who are scattered over the barn.

To this she adds various scraps of coarse bread and hard cheese, which she draws from a capacious apron, and evidently considers too good for the luckless vagabonds before her.
She is soon, however, as much interested as her mistress in the sick girl, to whom the latter is administering the warm restorative.

Spoonful after spoonful is applied to her lips, and greedily swallowed though with evident effort.

The toasted bread is soaked in a portion of the broth, and is also devoured as speedily as offered, with an avidity made still more painful by the difficulty of swallowing, occasioned by some obstruction in the throat.
'God help you, poor girl,' says the good Samaritan, as she puts the last mouthful to the lips of the patient.
The eyes unclose, and a tear falls upon the wan cheek, as a murmured, 'Thank you, my lady,' is faintly heard.
The 'lady' turns away with a heavy sigh, whilst the servant begins to arrange the blanket-shawl and rags more comfortably, and finally takes off her large linsey-woolsey apron to make a softer resting-place for the head and neck of the girl.

The grateful friends that stand around now bless the servant as zealously as they blessed her mistress, and if she understood the language in which the warm Irish hearts express their gratitude, she would probably wonder who 'the Vargin and all the holy saints and angels' are, that are invoked for her sake.
Again the farm-lady goes away, and returns bearing a small bottle of medicine, that she bids the red-cloaked woman give the sick girl in about an hour.