[Shouts.]

Out you go. Out. Don't dar one of you as much as till take his hand.

Out. Out the same as the beggar man gone, wi' the curse of your father on you.

[Robbie John goes toward back and stands a moment as if in silent appeal at the open door. Mrs. Granahan rushes forward to her husband as if to entreat mercy.

He angrily puts her away.]

Out. Out you go.

CURTAIN.

EPILOGUE.

The same scene, about midnight. There is no light except that of one or two candles and the turf fire. Grandfather seated at fire. William John Granahan leaning despondently on table beside which he is seated. Samuel James in his favourite seat on the top of the table. Wind, storm and rain outside.

GRANDFATHER.

Aye. Aye. But its no use talkin' now. Ye might ha' been a wee bit the less hasty.

WILLIAM JOHN GRANAHAN.

And who was goin' to thole yon conduck. It was too bad of him and after the to-do we had over him this very day. Its a sore heartscald, Robbie John, ye've been to me this day.

SAMUEL JAMES.

Ach, sure its over. Its full time we were in our beds.

[Viciously.]

You'd think he was dead and buried to hear the two of ye goin' on.

Sure for all know, he may be comin' back and a great name wi' him.

GRANDFATHER.

That's you to the ground, ye cunnin' rascal. Keep him out at all costs.

[Thunder and lightning.]

D'ye hear yon? To think o' that poor sowl wi' his wee bit o' a coat out in the coul' and wet. If any harm come till him, Samuel James, know this, you were the cause o' it.

SAMUEL JAMES.

It was his own choosin'.

GRANDFATHER.

His own choosin'. Who flattered him and led him on? Who kep' the fiddle hangin' there and would let no one take it down, a continuin'

temptation till him? And you, William John Granahan, wi' your l.u.s.t for money. Aye. l.u.s.t for money. You couldn't abide him heartenin' up the house wi' a tune or two, but ye'd brak the boy's heart sendin' him out till work again, and him workin' as much as two of Samuel James there.

Ye thought he was wastin' time and money. D'ye think there's nothin'

in this life beyond making money above the rent. I tell you it's not the money alone that makes life worth livin'. It's the wee things you think nothin' o', but that make your home a joy to come back till, after a hard day's work. And you've sent out into the coul and wet, the one that was makin' your home somethin' more than the common. D'ye think them proud city folk will listen to his poor ould ballads wi'

the heart o' the boy singin' through them. Its only us--its only us, I say, as knows the long wild nights, and the wet and the rain and the mist o' nights on the boglands,--its only us I say, could listen him in the right way,

[Sobbing.]

and ye knowed, right well ye knowed, that every string o' his fiddle was kayed to the cryin' o' your own heart.

WILLIAM JOHN GRANAHAN.

[Half sobbing.]

There. There. G.o.d forgive me, my poor ould boy. I did na know. Whist.

Maybe if I say a word or two:--Oh G.o.d forgive us this night our angry words, and ha'e marcy on my wayward son, O Lord, and keep him safe from harm, and deliver him not unto the adversary. Amen.

GRANDFATHER.

Amen. Aye. Aye. Ye done well. Let no the sun go down upon your wrath.

WILLIAM JOHN GRANAHAN.

[Going to door.]

It's a coorse night.

[Pauses.]

I'll lave the door on the hesp.

[He unbolts the door.]

CURTAIN.

O'GORMAN AND COMPANY, PRINTINGHOUSE, GALWAY.