“Ye young villyans!” shouted Clancy with a great assumption of anger; “sure a body can’t hear themselves think, for yez. Don’t yez know that Mary Carroll do be at death’s dure, ye bla’gards!” James Kelly polished the walnut top of his bar and nodded a “Good Luck” to Schwartz as the barber was about to swallow his evening glass of beer. “I hear that young Murphy’s intended wife do be dyin’,” said he. Schwartz wiped his mouth upon the towel hanging outside the bar. “It vas doo pad,” returned he. “An’ she vas sutch a young vooman, doo!” “She have the con-sum-shun,” went on Kelly, cheerfully, “an’ sorra a few av thim iver git well av that.” “Ach nine! Dey hafe a ferry boor chanct.” And the barber shook his head. “Oh, well! It’s not any of our doin’, Schwartz,” said Kelly, his voice full of comfortable irresponsibility. “But hacks will bring a power av money on the day av the berryin’.” A group of “somewhat drunk” young men sat upon the cellar door in McGarragles’ Alley, howling out a popular song between pulls at a can of beer. Goose McGonagle, who was passing, paused and regarded them disdainfully. “Did somebody hit youse mugs with a bar rag!” demanded he. “Ain’t none o’ youse got no sense? Here’s Mary Carroll a-dyin’ and youse people raisin’ hell almost under the window.” The singing stopped; the young roughs had always taken off their hats to Mary, a degree of reverence that they showed no one else, except, perhaps, young Father Dawson; and Goose passed on, confident that their uproar for that night, at least, was done. And so it went through all the neighbourhood; in every court and alley the news was known; in every kitchen and on every street corner it was talked of. Mike McCarty heard it while stripping the harness from his horses’ backs in Shannon’s stables; Tim Burns was told of it while still on his way from work; and it was the first thing that fell upon the ears of Danny Casey as he entered his mother’s house. “Mary’s dyin’,” trembled upon every lip that had smiled in answer to her kindness; and as the night grew old, a hush seemed to fall over the district; the very moon, as it sailed across the sky, attended by myriads of stars, seemed to blink solemnly down, and ponder sadly. Yes, the serene, white soul was passing; the shadow of the death angel’s wings had fallen across the bed where Mary lay. Larry sat near the window, his arm thrown along the back of the chair, his forehead resting upon it; Rosie, the only other person in the room, wiped the death damp from the pale brow, her eyes bright with tears. “Don’t take it so hard, Larry,” whispered the sick girl. “It had to come, you know, and you’ll be happy, afterward.”