Mary (coming down to them, speaking with amazement and consternation, but without anger). Going to the chapel! It’s at marriage you’re fooling again, maybe? (Sarah turns her back on her.) It was for that you were washing your face, and you after sending me for porter at the fall of night the way I’d drink a good half from the jug? (Going round in front of Sarah.) Is it at marriage you’re fooling again?

Sarah (triumphantly). It is, Mary Byrne. I’ll be married now in a short while; and from this day there will no one have a right to call me a dirty name, and I selling cans in Wicklow or Wexford or the city of Dublin itself.

Mary (turning to Michael). And it’s yourself is wedding her, Michael Byrne?

Michael (gloomily). It is, God spare us.

Mary (looks at Sarah for a moment, and then bursts out into a laugh of derision). Well, she’s a tight, hardy girl, and it’s no lie; but I never knew till this day it was a black born fool I had for a son. You’ll breed asses, I’ve heard them say, and poaching dogs, and horses’d go licking the wind, but it’s a hard thing, God help me, to breed sense in a son.

Michael (gloomily). If I didn’t marry her, she’d be walking off to Jaunting Jim maybe at the fall of night; and it’s well yourself knows there isn’t the like of her for getting money and selling songs to the men.

Mary. And you’re thinking it’s paying gold to his reverence would make a woman stop when she’s a mind to go?

Sarah (angrily). Let you not be destroying us with your talk when I’ve as good a right to a decent marriage as any speckled female does be sleeping in the black hovels above, would choke a mule.

Mary (soothingly). It’s as good a right you have, surely, Sarah Casey, but what good will it do? Is it putting that ring on your finger will keep you from getting an aged woman and losing the fine face you have, or be easing your pains; when it’s the grand ladies do be married in silk dresses, with rings of gold, that do pass any woman with their share of torment in the hour of birth, and do be paying the doctors in the city of Dublin a great price at that time, the like of what you’d pay for a good ass and a cart? (She sits down.)

Sarah (puzzled). Is that the truth?

Mary (pleased with the point she has made). Wouldn’t any know it’s the truth? Ah, it’s few short years you are yet in the world, Sarah Casey, and it’s little or nothing at all maybe you know about it.

Sarah (vehement but uneasy). What is it yourself knows of the fine ladies when they wouldn’t let the like of you go near to them at all?

Mary. If you do be drinking a little sup in one town and another town, it’s soon you get great knowledge and a great sight into the world. You’ll see men there, and women there, sitting up on the ends of barrels in the dark night, and they making great talk would soon have the like of you, Sarah Casey, as wise as a March hare.

Michael (to Sarah). That’s the truth she’s saying, and maybe, if you’ve sense in you at all, you’d have a right still to leave your fooling, and not be wasting our gold.

Sarah (decisively). If it’s wise or fool I am, I’ve made a good bargain, and I’ll stand to it now.

Mary. What is it he’s making you give?

Michael. The ten shillings in gold, and the tin can is above tied in the sack.