Rosie had been an infant when her mother died, and she had been reared by her two aunts in an atmosphere loaded with superstition and reeking of omens of good and ill. If the wind but stirred of a night among the housetops, Ellen detected the wail of a banshee, and if a lonely dog howled at the moon, Bridget, in hushed tones, announced the presence of death in the street. They crowded the corners of dimly lit rooms with the shadows of those departed, and the very teachings of religion were so distorted as to be made to supply exorcisms against agencies of evil and tokens calculated to render powerless their incantations. The girl was saturated with this; from her childhood she had drawn it in with every breath; and it was taught to her as an article of faith, to disbelieve which was to imperil her salvation. The father was well aware of this. He was far too practical to give heed to such things himself, but he was willing enough that they should help him finger some of old Larry’s hoarded dollars. So, like the crafty old fox that he was, he conjured up dreadful pictures of the fate that awaited her should she break her promise. The girl listened, terrified. “Glory be! That ye shud even t’ink av sich a t’ing!” cried her father in conclusion. “Don’t ye know that Mary do be harknin’ till yez?” “She hears ivery wurd ye say,” put in Bridget, unable to hold her peace. “No!” said the poor girl, her face growing pale, “don’t say that, Aunt Ellen!” “Don’t deny it, girl!” exclaimed her father seizing quickly upon the suggestion, “for divil the lie’s in it. She’ll go moanin’ about iver God’s blessed night wringin’ her two han’s an’ cryin’ the heart out av her! Scure till the bit av pace she’ll see till yez word’s made good.” “Wud yez hav us visited by her?” demanded Bridget. At this Ellen began a muttering; Bridget took it up, and Rosie stared at them, the fear in her heart showing in her wide-open eyes. That night Malachi O’Hara waited upon his customers with looks of great satisfaction; and in the little room above the store, Rosie cried herself to sleep thinking of the letter she had sent Jimmie Larkin. Chapter XVI “_I kape a saloon on the corner, me boys, An’ faith I’ve a flourishin’ trade, I bought out me cousin, Nathaniel Doyle, The money on whisky I made, I could sell to youse now a nice pusse caffey, Or a Rhino-Victoria cigar; No slate, chalk or pencil is kept in the house, Whin Malone’s at the back av the bar._” HARRIGAN. THE big gilt sign over Kelly’s saloon on Girard Avenue was all a-glitter with morning sunlight; a crowd of hangers-on leaned against the awning-frame, watching with admiration the ease with which a powerful German, in a leather apron, lifted huge kegs in and out of a brewer’s wagon.