Bella came forward, smiling, and took the young man’s arm. The sisters O’Hara threw looks of malice toward Mrs. McGlory; but the good woman disdained to notice them. “Go on, Roddy!” directed O’Connor. “Is it aslape ye are?” His assistant had followed Bella and her partner with moody eyes, and now stood gazing at the empty doorway. But he roused himself at O’Connor’s voice and before his abstraction was noticed by anyone else he continued: “James Larkin, and Miss Rosie O’Hara.” “Divil the bit will she,” broke in the latter’s father. “Rosie walks wid me, an’ not wid the son av an’ Orangeman!” Rosie grew red, and the tears sprang into her eyes; Jimmie hesitated, uncertain how to act, but at a glance from Rosie, he drew back and allowed her father to lead her out. “What a shame!” said good-natured Mrs. McGonagle. “Will nothin’ do the cub but Rosie?” sneered Bridget. “I don’t like his trade,” said Mrs. Clancy, “but he’s a foine young felly.” “He’s his father’s son,” said Ellen, bitingly. The list of names was gone quickly through; those intending to walk in the cortège as far as the church fell in, and all moved slowly down the street, O’Connor at their head. Larry Murphy’s recollections of what followed were but dim; through a sort of haze he heard the chanting priests, and saw the swinging censers, and his mind retained but little of what the pastor said in regard to the old man’s life and acts. He had been but a child when his father lay at the same altar rail, but his remembrance of that was vivid. The organ was silent then; the church was deserted save for a few friends, and a single priest performed the hurried service. It came back to him that he had cried bitterly; not that he had much idea of what was happening, but the dull light that crept in through the stained windows seemed to add to the gloom that filled the church, and a vague sense of loss had clutched at his childish heart. He did not begrudge the pomp that marked his grandfather’s burial services, but he thought that the old man could have spared a little from his store, that his dead son might have gone to the grave in a fitting manner, and not wait until death’s hand was upon him before giving a sign. But it was all over now; the pall-bearers had drunk their glasses of red wine, crumbled their pieces of sweet cake, shaken hands with Larry and departed. The Kellys had remained until Johnnie Kerrigan had informed them that the entire property had gone to Larry, and then left in a gust of anger. The young man and Mary were alone. She sat by the window, crying softly; he stood with his back to the stove, his hands clasped behind him, staring at the bright pattern in the carpet.