Sarah (in a low voice). And what time will you do the thing I’m asking, holy father? for I’m thinking you’ll do it surely, and not have me growing into an old, wicked heathen like herself.

Mary (calling out shrilly). Let you be walking back here, Sarah Casey, and not be talking whisper-talk with the like of him in the face of the Almighty God.

Sarah (to the priest). Do you hear her now, your reverence? Isn’t it true, surely, she’s an old, flagrant heathen, would destroy the world.

Priest (to Sarah, moving off). Well, I’ll be coming down early to the chapel, and let you come to me a while after you see me passing, and bring the bit of gold along with you, and the tin can. I’ll marry you for them two, though it’s a pitiful small sum; for I wouldn’t be easy in my soul if I left you growing into an old, wicked heathen the like of her.

Sarah (following him out). The blessing of the Almighty God be on you, holy father, and that He may reward and watch you from this present day.

Mary (nudging Michael). Did you see that, Michael Byrne? Didn’t you hear me telling you she’s flighty a while back since the change of the moon? With her fussing for marriage, and she making whisper-talk with one man or another man along by the road.

Michael. Whisht now, or she’ll knock the head of you the time she comes back.

Mary. Ah, it’s a bad, wicked way the world is this night, if there’s a fine air in it itself. You’d never have seen me, and I a young woman, making whisper-talk with the like of him, and he the fearfullest old fellow you’d see any place walking the world.

Sarah comes back quickly.

Mary (calling out to her). What is it you’re after whispering above with himself?

Sarah (exultingly). Lie down, and leave us in peace. (She whispers with Michael.)

Mary (poking out her pipe with a straw, sings):

(She breaks off coughing.) My singing voice is gone for this night, Sarah Casey. (She lights her pipe.) But if it’s flighty you are itself, you’re a grand, handsome woman, the glory of tinkers, the pride of Wicklow, the Beauty of Ballinacree. I wouldn’t have you lying down and you lonesome to sleep this night in a dark ditch when the spring is coming in the trees; so let you sit down there by the big bough, and I’ll be telling you the finest story you’d hear any place from Dundalk to Ballinacree, with great queens in it, making themselves matches from the start to the end, and they with shiny silks on them the length of the day, and white shifts for the night.

Michael (standing up with the tin can in his hand). Let you go asleep, and not have us destroyed.

Mary (lying back sleepily). Don’t mind him, Sarah Casey. Sit down now, and I’ll be telling you a story would be fit to tell a woman the like of you in the spring-time of the year.

Sarah (taking the can from Michael, and tying it up in a piece of sacking). That’ll not be rusting now in the dews of night. I’ll put it up in the ditch the way it will be handy in the morning; and now we’ve that done, Michael Byrne, I’ll go along with you and welcome for Tim Flaherty’s hens.

She puts the can in the ditch.

Mary (sleepily). I’ve a grand story of the great queens of Ireland, with white necks on them the like of Sarah Casey, and fine arms would hit you a slap the way Sarah Casey would hit you.