The dreadful spring was past; the horrible, dull, anxious summer was
gone; the cruel, chilly autumn went by; the cold, dead, heartless
winter dragged through; another spring came, cheerless, hopeless,
helpless, like the last.
"Shaun," said Mrs. O'Brien, "do you know when it was that Kathleen
went away?"
"Could I ever forget?" said John.
"When was it?"
"It was May Eve."
"And what is to-day, John?"
"It's the last day of April," John answered; "it's a year this night
she's been away. Could I forget it? Don't I think of it all the
time?"
"There's no time in the year," Mrs. O'Brien said, "when the Good
People have more power than on May Eve."
"Oh, mother," said John, "don't talk to me of the Good People; I've
heard too much of them. I don't care if there are any Good People or
not. I only know that Kathleen has been from us a year. When her
mother died I could bear it, because I had Kathleen left, but now
she's gone, and how can I bear it?"
"Listen to me, John," his mother went on. "It's on May Eve, as I told
you, that the Good People have great power.
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