It may seem somewhat excessive to use the word chivalry in connection with Mrs. Twomey, the Coppinger’s Court dairy-woman.  Yet, I dare to say that as great a soul filled the four feet four inches that comprised her excessively plain little person, as ever inspired warrior or fighting queen in the brave days of old.  Bred and born under the Talbot-Lowrys, she had crossed the river when she married one of the Coppinger’s Court workmen, and for close on thirty-five years she had milked the cows and ruled the dairy according to her own methods, which were as rigorous as they were remarkable, and altered not with modern enlightenment, or conformed with hygienic laws.  Her husband was a feeble creature, whose sole claim to distinction was his inability to speak English.  At the time that “The Family,” (which is, say, Frederica and Larry) returned, he had become quite blind, and he passed a cloistered existence in a dark corner of his little cottage, sitting, with his hat always upon his head, a being seemingly as withdrawn from the current of life as one of the smoky brown and white china dogs on the shelf above the wide hearth.

The legend ran that when he was young, a marriage had been arranged for him.  On the appointed wedding-day he had gone to the chapel, the priest was there, and the wedding-guests, but no bride came.  Michael Twomey therefore, after a fruitless exercise of patience, left the chapel in deep wrath and humiliation, and proceeded to walk home again.  On the road he was faced by a string of laughing girls, and among them there was little Mary Driscoll.  Mary had then, no doubt, such grace as youth can give, and that she had, at least, good teeth, was obvious to the disgruntled Michael Twomey, as she was grinning at him from ear to ear.  Also, possibly, his sight may not even then have been of the best.  Be that as it may, Michael caught at Mary’s arm.

“Come on to the chapel, Mary!” he shouted at her, in the Irish that was a more common speech in those days than it is now; “The priest is there yet, and the money is in my pocket.  I’ll marry you!”

Michael had made a luckier hit than he knew.  Little Mary Driscoll recognised the sporting quality of the suggestion, and being a girl of spirit acceded to it.

Mary had been to America.  She was one of the many of her class who put forth fearlessly for the United States, adventuring upon the unknown without any of the qualms that would beset them were the bourne London, or even one of the cities of their native land.  Wasn’t Mary’s mother’s sisther’s daughter, and Maggie Brian from Tullagh, and the dear knows how many more cousins and neighbours, before her in it?  Didn’t her brother that was marrit in it, send her her ticket, and wasn’t there good money to be airned in it?