Young Larry Murphy was standing upon the white stone step; he had just pulled the door bell softly; and catching the astonished stare of the two women, he swore at them under his breath. “They’re next already,” he muttered. “They’ll chew me up, an’ spit me out, an’ laugh about it! Why don’t the fagots stay in the house!” The door opened and he went in, leaving them staring at the house over which death was hovering. Clean and fresh-looking the house stood among its squalid surroundings of dirty stables, frowsy, ill-smelling drains and pestilential manure pits. Its stone steps were spotless, the brass bell knob was as bright as burnished gold, the pretty curtains at the windows like snow. And this was the home of the landlord of the court--the clean, bright, comfortable home he had dreamed of years before, when he stepped from the emigrant ship to begin life in a new land. He was dying now, and the money for which he had slaved and demeaned himself--the money which he had hoarded and loved--was about to pass from him. Once more he was going to begin in a new land, and a land where hard craft was as nothing beside clean hands. Not that old Larry had ever exacted more than his due; but he had stood flat-footed for that, in spite of prayers and tears; and the reckoning was now at hand. The door had been opened for young Larry by a stout, heavy-browed man, dressed in decent black; and as he stood aside for the youth to pass him in the narrow entry, he showed his discoloured teeth in a sneer. “So ye have hurried here at wanst, eh?” said he. “Divil the foot have yez iver put in the house afore, Larry?” “It’s manners to wait till yer asked,” returned Larry gruffly. The stout man closed the door. The house was soundless, and there was a heavy smell of sickness; the door of the sitting room stood partly open, and Larry caught the rustle of skirts. “I knowed yez’ed come,” continued the man who had admitted him. “Ah, but it’s the sharp wan yez are, Larry.” The youth turned and grasped the door knob. “I knowed how it’d be,” snarled he, looking savagely over his shoulder at the stout man. “I’ll lick youse for this, Kelly!” He jerked open the door and was about to depart when a woman’s voice called: “Mr. Murphy!” A girl had come into the entry from the sitting room; she was tall and slim; a bright spot burned in each cheek and she coughed slightly as the draft from the open door struck her. She held out her hand. “I’m glad that you’ve come,” said she. “Your grandfather has been asking for you again. Were you going away?” “Yes,” said Larry. He closed the door and took the proffered hand, ashamed of the anger which Kelly had awakened. She looked into his face with quiet, candid eyes. “That was wrong,” she said. “He is very low; will you come up?”