Dan himself stood in the doorway, eagerly on the lookout for them; while a querulous voice from within warned them that "herself" had reached the limit of her patience.
Entering they descried her—a tiny old woman, bent almost double with age and rheumatism, leaning forward in her elbow-chair with the letter on her knee.
Maggie was hustled to the front and the packet placed in her hand. She turned it over and over, and finally broke the seal.
"It's from America," she said.
"Bedad, alanna, I knew that before," returned old Dan, who was bending over her, his weather-beaten face betraying the utmost mystification.
"Sure all of us knew that," murmured the bystanders.
"Well, give the child time to see what's in it," urged Mrs. Kinsella. "Father Taylor himself couldn't tell yez what's in a letther before he had it opened."
"Who's it from, Maggie asthore? Tell us that much," cried Mrs. Brophy with shrill eagerness.
Maggie drew the letter from the envelope and slowly unfolded it. An enclosure fell out. Several hands were outstretched to catch it, and Mrs. Kinsella succeeded.
"What in the name o' goodness is this?" she asked. "There's print on this. I hope to heaven it's not a summons, or a notice to quit, or anything that way."