The Woman. Don't ye, dearie; now, then, don't ye! 'Twas not Michael, but just our little neighbor boy, Tim. Ye know, poor lamb, now if ye'll thry to remember, that father an' Michael is gone to the betther land an' us is left.
The Old Woman. Nay, nay, 'tis the fairies that took thim an' have thim now, kapin' thim an' will not ever give thim back.
The Woman. Whisht, mother! Spake not of the little folk on the Holy Night! [Crosses herself.] Have ye forgot the time o' all the year it is? Now, dhry yer eyes, dearie, an' thry to be cheerful like 'fore the girls be comin' home. [A noise is heard, the banging of a door and footsteps.] Thim be the girls now, shure they be comin' at last. [But the sound of footsteps dies away.] But they'll be comin' soon. [Wearily, but with the inveterate hope.]
[The two women relapse into silence again, which is undisturbed for a few minutes. Then there is a knock at the door, and together in quavering, reedy voices, they call, "Come in," as before. There enters a tall, big, broad-shouldered woman with a cold, discontented, hard look upon the face that might have been handsome some years back; still, in her eyes, as she looks at the pallid woman on the bed, there is something that denotes a softness underneath it all.]
The Old Woman. Good avnin' to ye! We're that pleased to see our neighbors!
The Neighbor [without paying any attention to the Old Woman, but entirely addressing the woman on the bed.] How's yer cough?
The Woman. Oh, it's jist the same—maybe a little betther. If I could on'y get to the counthry! But the girls must be workin'—they haven't time to take me. Sit down, won't ye? [The Neighbor goes to the bed and sits down on the foot of it.]
The Neighbor. I'm most dead, I'm so tired. I did two washin's to-day—went out and did one this mornin' and then my own after I come home this afternoon. I jus' got through sprinklin' it an' I'll iron to-morrow.
The Woman. Not on Christmas Day!
The Neighbor [with a sneer]. Christmas Day! Did ye hear 'bout the Beckers? Well, they was all put out on the sidewalk this afternoon. Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid his rent an' his wife's got a two weeks' old baby. It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't move, an' nobody couldn't do nothin' with her. But they ain't the only ones has bad luck—Smith, the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. They took him to the hospital, but it wasn't no use—his head was all mashed in. His wife's got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, though he warn't a drinkin' man. It's a good thing Smith's children is boys—they can make their livin' easier!