“I’m glad he’s gone away,” said Mary; “for he was here this afternoon when Mr. Murphy was out, and his talk was shameful. Are you coming in?” “For a little while. Don’t stand in the draf’; it makes youse cough.” McGonagle followed her into the sitting room where the black box rested upon a pair of low trestles. A number of wax lights burned at its head and an aged woman knelt at the foot, her withered lips muttering prayers for the repose of the departed soul. A dozen more women neighbours sat around the room talking lowly. “The men are all in the kitchen,” said Mary to the young man, “and I suppose you will want to go there, too.” “Arrah, then, Mary,” spoke his mother who sat among the group of women, “it’s himself that ’ud stay here till the cows come home iv Annie Clancy were on’y here.” A titter ran about and Goose looked embarrassed. “Don’t mind her,” said he. “Annie’s a nice girl,” said Mary, smiling at him with her kind eyes. “Do Goose still droive the milk wagon, Mrs. McGonagle?” asked Mrs. Burns after the young man had gone into the kitchen. “He do that same,” proudly, “an’ arns a good profit ivery wake.” The street door had opened and voices were heard in the entry. “It sounds like the O’Hara’s,” said Mrs. McGlory, wife of the contractor, who sat in a corner fanning herself, with all the dignity of her social position. Mrs. Burns elevated her hands in dismay. “They’ll be keenin’, jewel!” she cried to Mary. “I wouldn’t have it!” declared Mrs. Clancy, the grocer’s wife. “What’ll people t’ink?” The O’Hara sisters came bobbing into the room in queer-looking quilted bonnets that hid their faces, and triangularly folded shawls pulled tightly about their narrow shoulders. Espying Mary, they threw themselves upon her with lamentations. “Mary, darlin’,” cried Bridget, “it’s a heart full av trouble yez have this noight!” “God be good till yez, allanna!” exclaimed Ellen, “an’ kape death from uz all for many a day!” Then they crouched down beside the ice box, betraying every symptom of great grief. “Divil a tear did I see in her eyes,” muttered Ellen. “She’s vexed at not gittin’ the bit av money,” said her sister in the same low tone. Then they began muttering prayers in the Irish tongue; the others watched them, silently, from time to time exchanging intelligent nods. Then the sisters began swaying their bodies back and forth in unison, and the other old woman rose to her feet. “It’s comin’,” said she, “divil choke thim!” A long, low wail burst from them that immediately filled the kitchen doorway with the grinning faces of the men. It was the weird death cry of the Irish race, with which they lamented the passage of a soul, in their island home. Mary quickly approached the women and spoke a few determined words; they bounced upon their feet angrily. “Shame on yez, Mary Carroll,” cried Ellen. “Is it prevint our showin’ our rayspects till the dead ye’d be doin?” demanded Bridget.