“Mr. Minott (it was 'Mr.' now) had a big stack of money over at his stepfather's bank,” was Murphy's statement to a group around a table in one of the bar-rooms of the village. “He was in a big deal, so Mac thinks, and didn't want to haul any of it out. So when he died Mr. Breen never squawked--just went over and told the old man that Mac wanted the money and to fork out; and he did, like a good one. I seen the check, I tell ye. Oh! they're all in together. Mr. Breen's kin to them New York folks, and so is Mrs. Minott. He's her father, I hear. I think Mac shot off his mouth too quick, and I told him so, but he was so het up he couldn't keep still. Why, them fellers has got more money than they can throw away. Mac sees his mistake now. Heard him tell Mr. Breen that Mr. Minott was the whitest man he ever knowed; and you bet yer life he's right.” Nor was Murphy's eulogium the only one heard in the village. Within a week after the funeral a committee was appointed to gather funds for the placing of a stained-glass window in the new church in memory of the young architect who had designed and erected it; with the result that Holker Morris headed the subscription list, an example which was followed by many of the townspeople, including McGowan and Murphy and several others of their class, as well as various members of the Village Council, together with many of Garry's friends in New York, all of which was duly set forth in the county and New York papers; a fact which so impressed the head of the great banking firm of Arthur Breen & Co. that he immediately sent his personal check for a considerable amount, desiring, as he stated at a club dinner that same night, to pay some slight tribute to that brilliant young fellow, Minott, who, you know, married Mrs. Breen's daughter--a lovely girl, brought up in my own house, and who has now come home again to live with us. Peter listened attentively while Jack imparted these details, a peculiar smile playing about the corners of his eyes and mouth, his only comment at the strangeness of such posthumous honors to such a man, but he became positively hilarious when Jack reached that part in the narrative in which the head of the house of Breen figured as chief contributor. “And you mean to tell me, Jack,” he roared, “that Breen has pushed himself into poor Minott's stained-glass window, with the saints and the gold crowns, and--oh, Jack, you can't be serious!” “That's what the Rector tells me, sir.” “But, Jack--forgive me, my boy, but I have never in all my life heard anything so delicious. Don't you think if Holker spoke to the artist that Mr. Iscariot, or perhaps the estimable Mr. Ananias, or Mr. Pecksniff, or Uriah Heep might also be tucked away in the background?” And with this the old fellow, in spite of his sympathy for Jack and the solemnity of the occasion, threw back his head and laughed so long and so heartily that Mrs. McGuffey made excuse to enter the room to find out what it was all about.