Norah looked at the speaker, then to the crowd at which he pointed. It was a party of Irish workers, now numbering about thirty in all, and a few stragglers were still coming out to swell the ranks. A young girl with very clear skin and beautiful eyes was putting her rosary, one with a shiny cross at the end of it, into her pocket. An old woman with a black shawl over her head was brushing the snow from her hair. Her face was brown and very wrinkled; the few hairs that fell over her brow were almost as white as the snow that covered her shawl.
A young priest in cassock and gown came out, smiling broadly. “It’s early in the year for snow,” he said, looking at the potato-diggers.
“One may expect anything at this season of the year, yer reverence,” said the old woman with the white hair. The young girl looked closely at the priest, hanging on every word that he uttered.
“Are you all goin’ across home, this winter?” asked the priest.
“All of us,” said a man.
“You like the old country?” enquired the priest.
“Well may we,” answered the old woman. “It’s our own country.”
Norah was moving away; the last words came to her like an echo.
“Our own country!” Norah repeated half aloud, every word coming slowly through her lips. “But I have no country at all, no country! He’s a nice, kind priest, indeed he is. Speakin’ to them just as if they were his own people! I would like to go and confess me sins to that priest!”
The snow fell faster, and presently Norah felt cold. A fit of coughing seized her and the sharp pain which seldom went away from her left shoulder-blade began to trouble her acutely. She turned and went back to her room.