“Not yet; but he’ll die before the day’s over.” And with this the milkman threw himself and can into the wagon at the curb, and rolled down the street. Ellen closed the door and put the pitcher upon the table. “So he’ll be goin’ at las’,” said she. “Small wonder,” put in the sister; “sure he’s been poorly this long time.” “The owld man made a tidy bit av money in his day,” said the brother, admiringly. “Bud,” with a sigh, “it’s lavin’ it all he’ll be.” “An’ tell me, Malachi,” said Bridget, “d’yez think the gran’son’ll git any av it?” O’Hara spilled some of the milk into his coffee. “Divil a cint,” answered he, positively. “Sure, the owld man have niver noticed him since the day he wur born. An’ small blame till him,” rapping upon the table with his spoon, “for what call had his son till take up wid a Jewess?” “But,” reasoned Ellen, “now that he do be dyin’ he might call him in an’--” “Sorra the fear av that! Faix an’ whin Mike lay dead at O’Connor’s, the undertaker, he wint naythur nixt nor near him. Some say Kelly wur the cause av that, but owld Larry had timper enough av his own, God knows.” “An’ do ye t’ink he’ll lave the property till the Church?” “Ayther that or till Mary Carroll. Kelly t’inks there do be a chance for his boy, Martin; but Martin’s a hard drinker an’ the owld man niver liked a bone in his body.” The gong over the store door rattled sharply. A plump little woman with a rosy, chubby face had entered; she wore a bright scarlet shawl shot with green and saffron, and upon her head was perched a tiny black bonnet with blue strings. “Good mornin’ all,” greeted this lady with a sweeping flourish of a big brass-clasped prayer book. “An’ Bridget, acushla, have ye heard about poor owld Larry Murphy?” “God luk down on uz, I have,” answered Bridget, wagging her head from side to side. “Ah bud death’s a sad t’ing, Mrs. McGonagle.” “True for ye, asthore, true for ye!” And Mrs. McGonagle wagged her head also. “But,” she continued, “what will become av the houses in the alley, an’ the power av money they say he have in bank?” “We wur this minit spakin’ av that same,” said Ellen; “an’ Malachi t’inks the gran’son’ll git sorra the cint av it.” “God be good till uz, Malachi! An’ d’ye t’ink so?” Mrs. McGonagle caught her breath and stared at O’Hara in horror. “Till t’ink,” she added, in an awed tone, “av him holdin’ the grudge an’ him a-dyin’.” O’Hara had finished his breakfast and was putting on his coat. “I can see nothin’ ilce for it,” remarked he, sagely. “Young Larry is a study, sober, hard workin’ boy!” exclaimed Mrs. McGonagle, “an’ its a sin an’ a shame for him till be treated so. He have lodged in me third story for a long time, now, an’ I have the first time till see him wid a sup av drink in him; an’ I’d say that iv it wur me last breath, so I wud!” The gong rattled; the door slammed; and a girl, flushed and breathless, darted through the store and into the kitchen.