The Woman [smiling faintly]. Ain't ye got no cheerful news to tell? It's Christmas Eve, ye know.
The Neighbor. Christmas Eve don't seem to prevent people from dyin' an' bein' turned out o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the dipthery is? They say as how if it gits much worse they'll have to close the school in our ward. Two o' the Homan children's dead with it. The first one wasn't sick but two days, an' they say his face all turned black 'fore he died. But it's a good thing they're gone, for the Homans ain't got enough to feed the other six. Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin' again? Swore off for two months, an' then took to it harder'n ever—perty near killed the baby one night.
The Woman [with a wan, beseeching smile]. Won't you please not tell me any more? It just breaks me heart.
The Neighbor [grimly]. I ain't got no other kind o' news to tell. I s'pose I might's well go home.
The Woman. No, don't ye go. I like to have ye here when ye're kinder.
The Neighbor [fingering the bed clothes and smoothing them over the woman]. Well, it's gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep.
The Woman. Oh, no, I won't go to slape till the girls come. They'll bring me somethin' to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon.
The Neighbor. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til they git home?
The Old Woman. That we are. We're kapin' the cilebratin' till they come.
The Neighbor. What celebratin'?