sh died before he had been up two months. And death reconciled the
little difficulty between him and the McCartys; and old Mrs. McCarty's
liking for him came back, and she went crying to the Bellevue and begged
them, saying she was his mother, to let her take his body away and bury
it. They let her have it, and she brought it away to the rookery, in a
red coffin, and got a clean sheet of the Blazers, and hung it up beside
the coffin, and set four candles on a table, and a little cross between
them, and then borrowed a Bible with a cross on it, and laid it upon the
coffin. Then they sent for me. I cried and kissed poor English, for poor
English was the only father I knew, and he was good to me. I never shall
forget what I saw in that little room that night. I found a dozen
friends and the McCartys there, forming a half-circle of curious and
demoniacal faces, peering over the body of English, whose face, I
thought, formed the only repose in the picture. There were two small
pictures--one of the Saviour, and the other of Kossuth--hung at the head
and feet of the corpse; and the light shed a lurid paleness over the
living and the dead. And detective Fitzgerald and another gentleman
looked in.

"'Who's here to-night?' says Fitzgerald, in a friendly sort of way.

"'God love ye, Mr. Fitzgerald, poor English is gone! Indeed, then, it
was the will of the Lord, and He's taken him from us--poor English!'
says Mrs. McCarty. And Fitzgerald, and the gentleman with him, entered
the den, and they shuddered and sat down at the sight of the face in the
coffin. 'Sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald, do!--and may the Lord love ye! There
was a deal of good in poor English. He's gone--so he is!' said Mrs.
McCarty, begging them to sit down, and excuse the disordered state of
her few rags. She had a hard struggle to live, God knows. They took off
their hats, and sat a few minutes in solemn silence. The rags moved at
the gentleman's side, which made him move towards the door. 'What is
there, my good woman?' he inquired. 'She's a blessed child, Mr.
Fitzgerald knows that same:' says Mrs. McCarty, turning down the rags
and revealing the wasted features of her youngest girl, a child eleven
years old, sinking in death. 'God knows she'll be better in heaven, and
herself won't be long out of it,' Mrs. McCarty twice repeated,
maintaining a singular indifference to the hand of death, already upon
the child. The gentleman left some money to buy candles for poor
Eng