_Mary Cahel:_ It is to speak with my son I am asking, that is gaoled these eight weeks and a day. _Gatekeeper:_ If you have no order to visit him it’s as good for you go away home. _Mary Cahel:_ I got this letter ere yesterday. It might be it is giving me leave. _Gatekeeper:_ If that’s so he should be under the doctor, or in the hospital ward. _Mary Cahel:_ It’s no wonder if he’s down with the hardship, for he had a great cough and a cold. _Gatekeeper:_ Give me here the letter to read it. Sure it never was opened at all. _Mary Cahel:_ Myself and this woman have no learning. We were loth to trust any other one. _Gatekeeper:_ It was posted in Galway the twentieth, and this is the last of the month. _Mary Cahel:_ We never thought to call at the post office. It was chance brought it to us in the end. _Gatekeeper:_ (_Having read letter._) You poor unfortunate women, don’t you know Denis Cahel is dead? You’d a right to come this time yesterday if you wished any last word at all. _Mary Cahel:_ (_Kneeling down._) God and His Mother protect us and have mercy on Denis’s soul! _Mary Cushin:_ What is the man after saying? Sure it cannot be Denis is dead? _Gatekeeper:_ Dead since the dawn of yesterday, and another man now in his cell. I’ll go see who has charge of his clothing if you’re wanting to bring it away. (_He goes in. The dawn has begun to break._) _Mary Cahel:_ There is lasting kindness in Heaven when no kindness is found upon earth. There will surely be mercy found for him, and not the hard judgment of men! But my boy that was best in the world, that never rose a hair of my head, to have died with his name under blemish, and left a great shame on his child! Better for him have killed the whole world than to give any witness at all! Have you no word to say, Mary Cushin? Am I left here to keen him alone? _Mary Cushin:_ (_Who has sunk on to the step before the door, rocking herself and keening._) Oh, Denis, my heart is broken you to have died with the hard word upon you! My grief you to be alone now that spent so many nights in company! What way will I be going back through Gort and through Kilbecanty? The people will not be coming out keening you, they will say no prayer for the rest of your soul! What way will I be the Sunday and I going up the hill to the Mass? Every woman with her own comrade, and Mary Cushin to be walking her lone! What way will I be the Monday and the neighbours turning their heads from the house? The turf Denis cut lying on the bog, and no well-wisher to bring it to the hearth! What way will I be in the night time, and none but the dog calling after you? Two women to be mixing a cake, and not a man in the house to break it! What way will I sow the field, and no man to drive the furrow? The sheaf to be scattered before springtime that was brought together at the harvest!