The Old Woman [going about in a tottering sort of dance]. David an' Michael's comin' an' the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the way.
The Woman. If the girls would on'y come! If they'd give me somethin' so as I wouldn't be so tired!
The Old Woman. There's niver a sthar an' there's nobody to give thim a kind word an' the counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got the little folk to guide thim! An' whin they reach the city—the poor, lonesome shepherds from the hills!—they'll find naught but coldness an' hardness an' hurry. [Questioningly.] Will the fairies show thim the way? Fairies' eyes be used to darkness, but can they see where it is black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light in another? [She goes to the window for the third time, opens it and leans far out for a long time, then turns about and goes on in her monotone, closing the window.—She seems by this time quite to have forgotten the presence of the pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her eyes, and lies like one dead.]
The Old Woman. Nay, there's niver a sthar, an' the clouds are hangin' heavier an' lower an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little folk guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' thim by the hand so gently because there's no others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to the manger o' the Blessed Babe. [She comes over to her rocking-chair and again sits down in it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in time to the motion.] Poor little mite of a babe, so cold an' unwelcome an' forgotten save by the silly ould shepherds from the hills! The silly ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, who are comin' through the darkness in the lead o' the little folk! [She speaks slower and lower, and finally drops into a quiet crooning—it stops and the Old Woman has fallen asleep.]
[Curtain.]
[While the curtain is down the pallid, sick woman upon the bed dies, the Old Woman being asleep does not notice the slight struggle with death. The fire has gone out in the stove, and the light in the lamp, and the stage is in complete darkness when the two girls come stumbling in. They are too tired to speak, too weary to show surprise that the occupants of the room are not awake. They fumble about, trying to find matches in the darkness, and finally discover them and a candle in the safe. They light the candle and place it upon the table by the scraggy little evergreen-tree. They turn about and discern their grandmother asleep in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn to the bed and discover their mother lying there dead. For a full minute they stand gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, misery increasing in their faces; then with screams they run to the bed, throw themselves on their knees and bury their faces, sobbing, in the bedclothes at the Woman's feet.]
[Curtain.]