what dreams may come

As I came out of the Clarendon Street church in Dublin a series of quick cries rang out through the damp dark of a winterish evening.
"James, James, James."
It was my travelling woman.
"What is it Mary?"
"Congratulations."
"For what Mary?"
"Your daughter."
"What do you mean?"
"Congratulations on the birth of your daughter."
"How would you know about that Mary?"
"I saw her."
Passers by glanced at us in the rain as I stood before the beggar woman, my handsome preraphaelite features quirkily quizzical, struggling to comprehend a rather pleasant rearrangement of the boundaries of the universe.