And McGonagle plunged into the house with the crowd. The prospective pall-bearers resumed their comments upon the passing throng; a pastime at which they had been interrupted. “Here comes Kelly and his wife,” remarked McGlory. “With Mart pluggin’ along behind. And he’s half lit up, too.” “Good mornin’, Mr. McGlory,” saluted Casey to his employer. “How are yez, Danny?” answered the contractor as he went by with his wife. “Good mornin’ gintlemen.” “Gee!” whispered Casey, “ain’t the old lady a swell!” “Git onto Clancy’s stove-pipe lid! Ain’t it a bird!” “It was made during the siege o’ Limerick,” said McCarty, “an’ Clancy’s wore it at every funeral an’ at every A. O. H. procession since then.” “Hello, Schwartz; goin’ to the funeral?” “Say,” said McGlory, “don’t Rosie O’Hara look nice in black? Look at the two old ones givin’ their wipes a shower bath! Say, Larkin, there’s Rosie wavin’ her hand, on the quiet; she wants youse.” Her aunts had gone in, but Rosie paused upon the step, and Jimmie was at her side in a moment. “Who are ye goin’ to walk with?” said she. “With youse, if ye’ll let me!” eagerly. Rosie looked pleased. “Git our names down,” said she, “so’s we’ll be called out.” She entered the house just as Roddy Ferguson came out, his hands full of black cotton gloves and streamers of crape. “Hold out yer fin, McCarty,” commanded Roddy. “Say, Casey, youse kin tie a bow knot, so gimme a lift with these. I’d ask youse to come inside, gents,” went on O’Connor’s aid, “but the house is packed with women, and I know youse ain’t proud.” “Who’s got the list, Furgy?” asked Larkin. “O’Connor. Him and Larry’s makin’ it up in the kitchen.” Jimmie Larkin took off his hat in the entry and pushed into the room where the body lay exposed to view. Mary sat at the head of the casket; beside her were the Kellys, the mother with her handkerchief to her eyes, the father talking across the corpse to a friend, the son half asleep in his chair. Tall candles shed their light about the room; the walls were draped in dead black; the polished lid of the casket stood awesomely in a corner; the flowers sent by friends and the potted plants furnished by the undertaker smelt sickeningly sweet and heavy in the close, crowded room. The old man looked very peaceful; death had removed the hard, crabbed lines from his face, and the pale hands, twined about with a rosary, and holding a small crucifix, seemed, to the tenants, very different from the grasping old claws that he had been accustomed to thrust out for the rent. Some of the people sat, some stood, others again knelt, hurrying over the set prayers for the dead. “What a beautiful corpse!” ejaculated Ellen O’Hara, in a loud whisper. “Loike a child gone till slape,” said her sister. “He have fallen away a good bit,” commented Mrs. McGonagle. “Yis,” said Mrs. Clancy; “but not so much as I expected.” “He vas der hardest corbse to shafe I ever dackled,” Schwartz informed the latter lady’s husband.