“An’ do ye find no signs?” she asked. “Do ye hear no sounds?”
“Ah, now!” evading the question; “niver ye fear. Ye’ll see both childer a-laughin’ in your face or ever the mornin’ dawns again, or Larry Flannigan’s word’s no betther than a lie.”
She turned away and went home again, and the long night passed, and the morning dawned, and Larry Flannigan’s word was, indeed, no better than a lie.
It was only the same old story: “They’re a-workin’. It can’t be long now.”
But among themselves the miners said that had the lads escaped the fall, they would perish from hunger and foul air long before the way could be opened into their prison. To bring their lifeless bodies out for decent burial was all that could be hoped.
The morning of the fourth day dawned, beautiful and sunny. It was the holy Christmas Day; the day on which the star-led shepherds found the Christ-child in the hallowed manger in the town of Bethlehem. White and pure upon the earth, in the winter sunlight, rested a covering of newly fallen snow; and, pale-faced and hollow-eyed, the mother of the two imprisoned boys looked out upon it from the window of her desolated home.
The sympathizing neighbors who had kept her company for the night had gone for a little while, and she was alone.
She knew that there was no hope.
They had thought it a kindness to tell her so at last, and she had thanked them for not keeping the bitter truth hid from her.