"Did ye iver see the loikes av that?" she said in a low voice. "She'd draw the badgers out av their holes with thim songs av hers. And thim little divils have been all the mornin' a-fightin' and a-scrappin' loike Kilkenny cats."
"An' look at Patsy," said her husband, with wonder and pity in his eyes.
"Yis, ye may say that, for it's the cantankerous little curmudgeon he is, poor little manny."
"Cantankerous!" echoed her husband. "It's that blank pain av his."
"Whist now, Tim. There's Thim that'll be hearin' ye, an' it'll be the worse f'r him an' f'r you, beloike."
"Divil a fear have Oi av Thim," said her sceptical husband scornfully.
"Aw, now, do be quiet, now," said his wife, crossing herself. "Sure, prayin' is jist as aisy as cursin', and no harrum done, at all." She shut the door.
"Aw, it's the beautiful singer she is," as the girl struck up a new song. "Listen to that now."
Full, clear, soft, like the warbling of the thrush at evening, came the voice through the closed door. The man and his wife stood listening with a rapt look on their faces.
"Phat in Hivin's name is she singin', at all?" said Mrs. Carroll.