The Woman. Mother, could ye get me a cup o' wather? If the girls was here to get me a bite to ate, maybe it would kape the breath in me the night.
The Old Woman [starts and stares at her daughter, as if she hardly comprehended the present reality. She gets up and goes over to the window under which there is a pail full of water. She dips some out in a tin cup and carries it to her bed.] Ye should thry to get up an' move about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on Christmas. Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be wantin' ye to be merry wid the rest av us.
The Woman [looking at her mother with a sad wistfulness]. I wouldn't spoil things for the girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd lift me a little I could sit up. [The Old Woman tugs at her, and she herself tries hard to get into a sitting posture, but after some effort and panting for breath, she falls back again. After a pause for rest, she speaks gaspingly.] Maybe I'll feel sthronger lather whin the girls come home—they could help me—[with the plaint of longing in her voice] they be so late! [After another pause.] Maybe I'll be sthrong again in the mornin'—if I'd had a cup of coffee.—Maybe I could get up—an' walk about—an' do the cookin'. [There is a knock at the door, and again they call, "Come in," in reedy, weak voices. There enters a little messenger boy in a ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. His eyes are large and bright, his face pale and dirty, and he is fearfully tired and worn.]
The Woman. Why, Tim, boy, come in. Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin' weary.
The Old Woman. Come to the stove, Timmie, man, an' warm yourself. We always kape a warm room an' a bright fire for visitors.
The Boy. I was awful cold an' hungry an' I come home to get somethin' to eat before. I started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't home from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out in the stove, an' the room's cold as outside. I thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git warm.
The Old Woman. Poor orphan! Poor lamb! To be shure ye shall get warm by our sthove.
The Boy. The cars are so beastly col' an' so crowded a feller mostly has to stand on the back platform. [The Old Woman takes him by the shoulder and pushes him toward the stove, but he resists.]
The Boy. No, thank ye—I don't want to go so near yet; my feet's all numb an' they allays hurt so when they warms up fast.
The Old Woman. Thin sit ye down off from the sthove. [Moves the rocking-chair farther away from the stove for him.]