"Annuzzer puddin'!" lisped little Patsy.
"May the saints forgit to sind us another puddin'!" said Granny M'Carty.
Before any one had thought to open the door, it opened from without, and there stood, looking in at the group, a tall, haggard, weary man.
"Holy Virgin save us, it's Michael's ghost!" cried Granny, covering her face with her hands.
For a full minute the inmates of the shanty and the man at the door stared at each other. Then Mrs. M'Carty heard the one word:
"Bridget!"
It was enough. Quite forgetting little Ellen, who tumbled unceremoniously to the floor, Mrs. M'Carty sprang from her chair.
"It's no ghost! It's no ghost!" she cried, sobbing and laughing. "It's my Michael,—my heart of the world,—my Michael,—come back from the dead," and she threw herself into his arms.
Exclamations and explanations were now the order of the day. Mrs. M'Carty in her Christmas lavishness had used all of the tea, but she reheated the contents of the teapot and cut a slice of pudding for her husband, but Michael, established in his erstwhile empty place at the table, was too happy for either eating or drinking.