“Aunt Ellen,” cried she, “give me the candles we had from last Candlemas Day; an’ I want the ivory crucifix, too, for they’ve sent for Father Dawson.” Ellen began a hurried rummaging for the articles named; the girl caught sight of Mrs. McGonagle and grasped her by the arm. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “is it you, Mrs. McGonagle? I’m glad you’re here; I was just a-goin’ to run around to your house.” “For why?” “Here!” cried Ellen pushing a parcel into the girl’s hand. “Here’s what yez want; away wid ye, now, an’ don’t be stan’in’.” “You’ll hurry home, won’t you, Mrs. McGonagle,” the girl was now at the door, her hand on the latch, “an’ tell Larry Murphy his gran’father wants to see him before he dies.” And with that the side door closed behind her and she went by the window like a flash. “Be the powers av Moll Kelly!” exclaimed O’Hara, his broad face blank with wonder, “but that bates the Owld Nick.” He stood staring at his sisters, who had their withered hands in the air in gestures of amazement. Mrs. McGonagle’s face shone with glee and she cackled rapturously. “I must hurry home,” said she, “an’ waken Larry.” “Is he still in bed?” cried Ellen. “Do he not go till Mass?” cried Bridget. “Why, not very often,” admitted Mrs. McGonagle, reluctantly. “He an’ Jimmie Larkin slapes till a’most dinner toime ivery Sunday. But Larry’s a daysint b’y for all that. Good day till yez.” And with that the good little woman bolted into the street and went sailing toward McGarragles’ Alley, her bright shawl fluttering in the breeze. The two old crones clawed mystic signs in the air over the spot where their visitor had lately stood and began muttering in Gaelic. O’Hara was brushing his Sunday high hat with the sleeve of his coat and paused as he caught the words. “What humbuggin’ are yez at now?” demanded he. “Would yez be after lettin’ the curse stay in the house?” cried Bridget. “Sure, she hav the evil eye!” asserted Ellen. O’Hara regarded them fixedly for a moment; then with a snort he put on his hat, took his black-thorn stick from behind the door, and started off for church. Chapter III “_My grandfather, he, at the age of eighty-three, One day in May was taken ill and died, And after he was dead, the will, of course, was read, By a lawyer, as we all stood by his side._” POPULAR SONG. LARRY MURPHY awoke and sat up in bed; the sun was streaming in through the one small window of Mrs. McGonagle’s third story room, and the peal of the bell sounded solemnly in his ears. Through the window could be seen the church tower, pointing like a gigantic finger heavenward; the hands of the clock were slowly lifting as though to screen its face from the glare of the sun. Larry stretched himself lazily. “Solemn High Mass,” yawned he. A second young man lay upon a cot opposite, propped up with a pillow and reading a pink sporting paper. He glanced up.