“I’m glad he’s gone away,” said Mary; “for he was here this afternoon when Mr. Murphy was out, and his talk was shameful. Are you coming in?”
“For a little while. Don’t stand in the draf’; it makes youse cough.” McGonagle followed her into the sitting room where the black box rested upon a pair of low trestles. A number of wax lights burned at its head and an aged woman knelt at the foot, her withered lips muttering prayers for the repose of the departed soul. A dozen more women neighbours sat around the room talking lowly.
“The men are all in the kitchen,” said Mary to the young man, “and I suppose you will want to go there, too.”
“Arrah, then, Mary,” spoke his mother who sat among the group of women, “it’s himself that ’ud stay here till the cows come home iv Annie Clancy were on’y here.”
A titter ran about and Goose looked embarrassed. “Don’t mind her,” said he.
“Annie’s a nice girl,” said Mary, smiling at him with her kind eyes.
“Do Goose still droive the milk wagon, Mrs. McGonagle?” asked Mrs. Burns after the young man had gone into the kitchen.
“He do that same,” proudly, “an’ arns a good profit ivery wake.”
The street door had opened and voices were heard in the entry.
“It sounds like the O’Hara’s,” said Mrs. McGlory, wife of the contractor, who sat in a corner fanning herself, with all the dignity of her social position. Mrs. Burns elevated her hands in dismay.