ian Mulkearn.

Mrs. Ford: It was they who put a seal of silence on their lips and bore
their punishment to save a friend of the people. Have a place beside me
for the widow of Con Rafferty who hid the smoking revolver the day the
tyrant fell at the cross of Killbrack.

Donagh: All the old neighbours are coming surely.

Mrs. Ford (_crossing slowly to door, Agnes going before her_): Let me
look into their eyes for the things I will see stirring there. I will
reach them out the friendship of my hands and speak to them the words
that lie upon my heart. The rafters of this house will ring again with
the voices that Donagh Ford welcomed and that I loved. Aye, the very
fire on the hearth will leap in memory of the hands that tended it.

Donagh: This will be such a day as will be made a boast of for ever in
Carrabane. (_Agnes goes out door to meet the people._)

Mrs. Ford: Let there be music and the sound of rejoicing and shouts from
the hills. Let those who put their feet in anger upon us and who are
themselves reduced to-day look back upon the strength they held and the
power they lost.

Donagh: I will bid the music play up. (_He goes out._)

Mrs. Ford (_standing alone at the door_): People of Carrabane, gather
about the old house of Donagh Ford. Let the fight for the land in this
place end where it began. Let the courage and the strength that Donagh
Ford knew be in your blood from this day out. Let the spirit be good and
the hand be strong for the work that the heart directs. Raise up your
voices with my voice this day and let us make a great praise on the
name of Ireland. (_She raises her stick, straightening her old figure.
The band strikes up and the people cheer outside as the curtain falls._)

A WAYSIDE BURIAL

The parish priest was in a very great hurry and yet anxious for a talk
on his pet subject. He wanted to speak about the new temperance hall.
Would I mind walking a little way with him while he did so? He had a
great many things to attend to that day.... We made our way along the
street together, left the town behind us, and presently reached that
sinister appendage of all Irish country towns, the workhouse. The priest
turned in the wide gate, and the porter, old, official, spectacled, came
to meet him.

"Has the funeral gone?" asked the priest, a little breathless.

"I'll see, Father." The porter shuffled over the flags, a great door
swung open; there was a vista of whitewashed walls, a chilly