Chapter III: Part 3

"Av course they're fine, but there's nothin' but puddin's, an' I have to ate them or be stharvin', I expect," and Granny helped herself to the third piece and passed her cup to Bridget to be filled the fourth time.

While the puddings were being eaten Mrs. M'Carty told the tale of the mysterious presents. So dramatic was her exposition of the twelve knocks that had been the precursors of the twelve puddings that when, as she finished, there came a loud and emphatic knock at the door, Grandad Rafferty, his mind on Bridget's story, ejaculated:

"Another puddin'!"

"Annuzzer puddin'!" lisped little Patsy.

"May the saints forgit to sind us another puddin'!" said Granny M'Carty.

Before any one had thought to open the door, it opened from without, and there stood, looking in at the group, a tall, haggard, weary man.

"Holy Virgin save us, it's Michael's ghost!" cried Granny, covering her face with her hands.

For a full minute the inmates of the shanty and the man at the door stared at each other. Then Mrs. M'Carty heard the one word:

"Bridget!"

It was enough. Quite forgetting little Ellen, who tumbled unceremoniously to the floor, Mrs. M'Carty sprang from her chair.

"It's no ghost! It's no ghost!" she cried, sobbing and laughing. "It's my Michael,--my heart of the world,--my Michael,--come back from the dead," and she threw herself into his arms.

Exclamations and explanations were now the order of the day. Mrs. M'Carty in her Christmas lavishness had used all of the tea, but she reheated the contents of the teapot and cut a slice of pudding for her husband, but Michael, established in his erstwhile empty place at the table, was too happy for either eating or drinking.

The dinner lasted as long as did that of any of "swelldom's four hundred," for one cannot relate in a few moments the happenings of months, nor can so wonderful a gift as that of Katrina Baumgaertner be passed over with a few words.

When the tale of the puddings was ended Michael, with a merry twinkle in his eye, said to Norah:

"Norah, my jewel, be lookin' outside the door there, and see what you can be after findin'."

Eight little M'Cartys ran to the door. A scramble, a noisy return, and down on the table descended the thirteenth pudding.

* * * * *

At dusk Granny M'Carty and Grandad Rafferty sat in their accustomed places by the fire. Baby Ellen was fast asleep in Grandad's arms. The children were out for a run in the fresh air, and Bridget and Michael were enjoying a few moments of happy converse together in the lean-to.

Grandad rocked gently to and fro, nodding and smiling to himself as if his thoughts were very pleasant company. The sight of his cheerful face, dimly seen by the small lamp, was too much for Granny.

"It's meself," she began, "as can sit here with never a soul to be shpakin' to me, an' ev'ry one of me bones and nerves achin' with the excitemint of this day; an' it's ye, Misther Rafferty, that can sit there grinnin' and noddin' like a crazy loon. It's them that has a fine consait of themselves that gets along in this world, I mind. An' look at them puddin's,--"

"Puddin's? Puddin's?" said Grandad, rousing from his reverie and looking about as if he expected to see a second installment.

"Yes, puddin's!" mimicked Granny. "What's to be done with the leavin's of them thirteen puddin's, the unlucky things?"

"Mrs. M'Carty, don't be callin' them puddin's unlucky. Sure, 'twas the thirteenth puddin' that let Michael be findin' his lost family. Think no more of them. Remember yer Michael that couldn't sthay lost, an' it's because ye was so lucky to be namin' him afther the good saint. Saint Michael an' the old dragon, ye mind,--"

"An' is it meself ye're afther callin' an old dragon?" almost screamed Granny.

"Indade and indade, Mrs. M'Carty," began Grandad, regretting his unfortunate allusion to the dragon, and anxious to avert the impending tirade, "I'm not callin' ye an old dragon, at all, at all. It's--it's yer roometiz I mane. Yes, sure, it's that is the old dragon, an' Michael will fight it for yez, an' I know he'll conquer it entirely, just as sure as I know there was luck in them thirteen puddin's. An' Granny," he went on, growing still more Utopian in his predictions, "ye'll soon be walkin' 'round gay as a cricket, with never an ache or a pain to be throublin' yez."

"Are ye sure of all that, Misther Rafferty?" asked Granny eagerly. Grandad had conjured up too blissful a vision for even her gloomy spirits to withstand.

"Sure? Av course I'm sure!" answered Grandad promptly, and pounded his chair with emphasis. "It's as good as done this minit, an' there's such good times comin' for all of us, it's not aven the quane we'll be envyin'."

Granny sat for a few moments in silence. Then she turned to Grandad.

"An' did ye mind, Misther Rafferty," she said with a little brightness, "did ye mind, I say, that Michael had the gold ring on his finger?"

"I did that," answered Grandad. "Me two eyes took sight of it as soon as ever he sthirred his hand, an' it was shinin' as bright as ever it was before he went an' got drownded. An' that's another sign of good times comin' for us. An' listen, Mrs. M'Carty, it's for yer Michael bein' ev'ry bit as good as gold himself, that them saints went to all the throuble of undrownding him an' bringin' him back to us that nades him."

And for once Granny smilingly agreed.

THE END.

Transcriber's Notes:

Archaic syntax, dialect, and inconsistent spelling retained.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Misfit Christmas Puddings, by Club Consolation