“I wud niver knowed better iv it hadn’t a-been for Mary; she made me see it; it wur her that towld me av the black wrong I done yez, both. I’ll make up for it, Larry, I’ll make it up, never fear!” The old man paused for a moment, his face twitching. “D’ye t’ink it’s too late?” he added eagerly. “It’s never too late.” And thinking to soothe the fears that gripped at the darkening brain, Larry added. “It wasn’t much, ye know.” “But it wur, lad, it wur. Ye don’t know the gredge I wanst held in me heart agin yez both. Didn’t I walk the flure, when he lay dead beyant there at O’Connor’s, half mad wid the thinkin’? I t’ought till give him a daysint berryin’ an’ bring yezself home here; but the divil got the better av me, lad, so he did! Yez don’t know the black bitterness I’ve held against yez; yez don’t know!” The agitation seemed to exhaust him; he sank back, a thin streak of blood showing on his purple lips. “Don’t excite yourself, Uncle Larry,” said Mary. “That is all past and gone now; Larry has forgiven you, and his father has, too.” A smile of hope flickered over the face of the sick man, and the girl kissed the withered cheek. The youth with the screed leaned forward. “Hadn’t he better attend to this,” whispered he; “he may die at any moment, now. This meeting, or rather the prospect of it, was all that kept him up.” The old man caught the words. “Is that young Kerrigan?” breathed he; “yez are r’ght, Johnnie; soign me name, lad, an’ I’ll make me mark.” The name was attached to the paper, the mark was made and the two girls witnessed it. Kerrigan folded the paper and put it into his pocket; the old man lay back upon his pillow and seemed scarce to breathe; his chest was sunken, his eyes stared vacantly. A dog yelped dolefully below in the court; from the railroad came the hiss of escaping steam and the grind of wheels. Kelly opened the door softly, and said: “Father Dawson’s comin’ up.” He returned into the passage and looked over the stair rail. “This way, Father,” said he. The pure-faced young priest came into the room. Mary’s lips trembled and her voice broke slightly as she greeted him. “Bear up,” said he gently; “death is the common lot; and then he is very old.” He bent over the bed; the bar of light had shifted and old Larry’s hair shone like silver under its warm touch. “He should have the last rites of the Church,” said the priest. Then turning to Kelly and Larry he added: “I will ask you to leave the room for a few moments, please. You may stay,” to Kerrigan, who had moved toward the door with the others. “I may need you.” The two men stood in the passage for a time in silence; Rosie could be heard sobbing heavily, and the priest’s voice murmured holy words. At length Kelly spoke: “What wur Kerrigan called in for?” asked he. “I didn’t know he was called in,” answered Larry. Kelly regarded him for a moment, disbelief written upon his face. Then he resumed, anxiously: “Did the owld man put his mark till anything?”