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Rh had grown up with a kindly old man, Tom Young; his “old woman,” dying at about Sarah’s fourth birthday. (That word “old woman,” is common amongst Irish folks, and is not at all ungracious. It had to crawl into this story, through orthographical taboos, you know.) But Sarah, now a grown young lady, had that natural longing for a spot in which a woman might find that joy of living, in having “things to do for just us two” if bound by Cupid’s gift—matrimony.

Many a day in passing that big church of Nancy’s grand display, or Gadsby’s rich mansion, Sarah had thought fondly about such things; for, as with any girl, marrying amidst blossoms, glamour and organ music was a goal, to attain which was actual bliss. But such rituals call for cash; and lots of it, too. Also, Old Tom Young had no room in any way fit for such an occasion.

So Sarah would walk past, possibly a bit sad, but looking forward to a coming happy day. And it wasn’t so far off. My, no! As Nancy had thought April was “a million months long,” Sarah’s days swung past in a dizzy whirl; during which, in company with Paul on Saturday nights, a small thing or two was happily bought for that “Cupid’s Coop,” as both found a lot of fun in calling it. But Sarah naturally had girl chums, just as Nancy and