It was Christmas Eve. Norah sat beside the coal fire which burned in the large stove in Morrison’s cart shed, seeing pictures in the flames. Outside there was no moon, but a million stars shone in a heaven that was coldly clear. To-morrow the squad was going home.
“I haven’t seen that fellow, young Morrison, for a whole year,” said Maire a Glan, who was sewing patches on her dress. “I don’t like the look of yon fellow; it makes me sick to see him sittin’ here, askin’ us about how we do this and how we do that, what we do at home and how many acres of land have we got in Ireland, and hundreds of other things that the very priest himself wouldn’t ask ye.”
“He’s a good youngster, for all ye say,” remarked Owen Kelly, who once got a shilling as a tip from the young fellow. “That’s no reason for ye takin’ such an ill will against him, Maire a Glan.”
“I don’t like him atall, atall,” said the old woman doggedly. “There’s something about him that I care little for.”
“We all have our faults, Maire,” said old Biddy Wor. “And it goes against the grain with me to speak ill of anybody, no matter who they are. Ye’ve noticed that yerself.”
“I couldn’t fail to, seein’ you’ve told me so often,” said Maire a Glan.
“There are faults and faults,” remarked Eamon Doherty. “And some faults are worse at one time than another. D’ye mind the beansho?” he asked, turning to Biddy Wor. “Of course ye mind her. Well, the man that was the cause of—ye know yerself—he got drounded at the fishin’ before he could get married to Sheila. Her fault was not a great one atall, atall.”
“She was a brazen heifer, anyway,” said Biddy Wor.
“Where is she now?” Eamon Doherty enquired.
“No one knows atall, atall,” said Judy Carrol. “Maybe she’s a—a one like Gourock Ellen, God be good to us all!”