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!”