A long, low wail burst from them that immediately filled the kitchen doorway with the grinning faces of the men. It was the weird death cry of the Irish race, with which they lamented the passage of a soul, in their island home. Mary quickly approached the women and spoke a few determined words; they bounced upon their feet angrily.
“Shame on yez, Mary Carroll,” cried Ellen.
“Is it prevint our showin’ our rayspects till the dead ye’d be doin?” demanded Bridget.
“The custom is not understood in this country,” said Mary quietly; and they flounced indignantly down upon the sofa and glowered about them.
“Luk at that stuck-up shtrap, McGlory’s wife, makin’ game av uz,” muttered Bridget. “Sure an’ iv she’d git her drunken brother out av the House av Correction ’t wud be fitter for her!”
“Ah, the big, fat hussy!” exclaimed Ellen, “it’s well I raymimber the toime whin her owld man drove an ash cart, an’ hersilf tuk in washin’.”
All unknowing, Mrs. McGlory was smoothing out her silk dress and hoping that the others noticed the sparkle of her chip diamond ring.
“Mary,” inquired she, leaning forward as far as her tight waist would permit, “is it owld Kate Sweeney yez’ll have till lay him out?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” answered Mary, “but I suppose so.”
“Kate do have illigant taste,” affirmed Mrs. Clancy.