The Woman. They're always late, an' they kape gettin' lather an' lather.
The Neighbor. Yis, av coorse, the sthores is all open in the avnin's before Christmas.
The Woman. They go so early in the mornin' an' get home so late at night, an' they're so tired.
The Neighbor [whiningly]. They're lucky to be young enough to work an' not be married. I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim their tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an' to-morrow bein' Christmas I misdoubt he'll be terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from the blow in the shoulder the last time. [She wipes her eyes and moves towards the door.]
The Old Woman. Sthay an' kape Christmas wid us. We're goin' to have our celebratin' to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do here. I like it best on Christmas Day, the way 'tis in the ould counthry, but here 'tis Christmas Eve they kape. We're waitin' for the girls to come home to start things—they knowin' how—Mary an' me on'y know how to kape Christmas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon be here, an' they'll have the three an' do the cookin' an' all, an' we'll kape up the jollity way into the night.
The Neighbor [looks questioningly and surprised at the Woman, whose eyes are on the mother.] Nay, if Pat came home dhrunk an' didn't find me, he'd kill me. We have all to be movin' on to our own throubles. [She goes out, and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree which she has been fingering and admiring, and sits down in the rocking-chair again. After a while she croons to herself in a high, broken voice. This lasts some time, when there is the noise of a slamming door and then of footsteps approaching.]
The Woman. If I could on'y be in the counthry!
The Old Woman. Maybe that would be the girls! [She starts tremblingly to her feet, but the steps come up to the door and go by.] If David and Michael was to come now an' go by—there bein' no sthar to guide thim!
The Woman. Nay, mother, 'twas the shepherds that was guided by the sthar an' to the bed o' the Blessed Babe.
The Old Woman. Aye, so 'twas. What be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed Babe! [She smiles and sits staring at the stove again for a little.] But they could not find Him to-night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars shinin.' [After another pause.] An' what would shepherds do in a ghreat city? 'Twould be lost they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think ye, Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' the p'lice, maybe, would want to be aristin' thim for loitherin'. They'd niver find the Blessed Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [Another pause, and then there is the sound of approaching footsteps again. The Old Woman grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, intently listening.]—That would sure be the girls this time! [But again the footsteps go by. The Old Woman sighs.] Ah, but 'tis weary waitin'! [There is another long pause.] 'Twas on that day that David an' me was plighted—a brave Christmas Day wid a shinin' sun an' a sky o' blue wid fair, white clouds. An' David an' me met at the early mass in the dark o' the frosty mornin' afore the sun rose—an' there was all day good times an' a duck for dinner and puddin's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a beautiful dancer, an' me, too—I was as light on my feet as a fairy. [She begins to croon an old dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping time with her head, tries a grotesque and feeble sort of dancing. Her eyes brighten and she smiles proudly.] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, an' there was not another couple so sprightly an' handsome in all the country. [She tires, and, looking pitiful and disappointed, hobbles back to her chair, and drops into it again.] Ah, but I be old now, and the strength fails me. [She falls into silence for a few minutes.] 'Twas the day before the little man, the little white dove, my next Christmas that Michael was born—little son! [There is a moment's pause, and then the pallid woman on the bed has a violent fit of coughing.]