Gabriel said nothing, but pointed up the stairs towards where his wife was standing. Now that the hall- door was closed the voice and the piano could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality and the singer seemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer’s hoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief:

‘O,’ exclaimed Mary Jane. ‘It’s Bartell D’Arcy singing, and he wouldn’t sing all the night. O, I’ll get him to sing a song before he goes.’

‘O, do, Mary Jane,’ said Aunt Kate.

Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but before she reached it the singing stopped and the piano was closed abruptly.

‘O, what a pity!’ she cried. ‘Is he coming down, Gretta?’

Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towards them. A few steps behind her were Mr. Bartell D’Arcy and Miss O’Callaghan.

‘O, Mr. D’Arcy,’ cried Mary Jane, ‘it’s downright mean of you to break off like that when we were all in raptures listening to you.’

‘I have been at him all the evening,’ said Miss O’Callaghan, ‘and Mrs. Conroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn’t sing.’

‘O, Mr. D’Arcy,’ said Aunt Kate, ‘now that was a great fib to tell.’

‘Can’t you see that I’m as hoarse as a crow?’ said Mr. D’Arcy roughly.

He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, taken back by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop the subject. Mr. D’Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and frowning.

‘It’s the weather,’ said Aunt Julia, after a pause.

‘Yes, everybody has colds,’ said Aunt Kate readily, ‘everybody.’

‘They say,’ said Mary Jane, ‘we haven’t had snow like it for thirty years, and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow is general all over Ireland.’

‘I love the look of snow,’ said Aunt Julia sadly.

‘So do I,’ said Miss O’Callaghan. ‘I think Christmas is never really Christmas unless we have the snow on the ground.’

‘But poor Mr. D’Arcy doesn’t like the snow,’ said Aunt Kate, smiling.

Mr. D’Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and in a repentant tone told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave him advice and said it was a great pity and urged him to be very careful of his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife, who did not join in the conversation. She was standing right under the dusty fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he had seen her drying at the fire a few days before. She was in the same attitude and seemed unaware of the talk about her. At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart.