He then took the book, and going over to the coffin, read in a loud and sonorous voice the De Profundis and other prayers for the dead, casting his eyes from time to time upon the unfortunate clerk with a contemptuous bitterness and scorn that, for force of expression, could not be surpassed.  When he had concluded, he looked around him with a sense of lofty triumph that was irresistible in its way.  “There,” said he, “is something like accent and quantity for you—­there is something that may, without derogation to religion, be called respectable perusal—­an’ yet to say that a man like me, wid classical accomplishments and propensities from my very cradle, should be set aside for that illiterate vulgarian, merely because, like every other janius, I sometimes indulge in the delectable enjoyment of a copious libation, is too bad.”

This in fact was the gist of his resentment against O’Grady.  He had been in the habit for some time of acting as clerk to the priest, who bore with his “copious libations,” as he called them, until common decency rendered it impossible to allow him any longer the privilege of taking a part as clerk in the ceremonies of religion.

When this was over, a rustic choir, whom the parish clerk had organized, and in a great measure taught himself, approached the body and sang a hymn over it, after which the preparations for its removal began to be made.

Ever since the death of his wife, Thomas M’Mahon could not be prevailed upon to taste a morsel of food.  He went about from place to place, marked by such evidences of utter prostration and despair that it was painful to look upon him, especially when one considered the truth, purity, and fervor of the affection that had subsisted between him and the inestimable woman he had lost.  The only two individuals capable of exercising any influence upon him now were Bryan and his daughter Dora; yet even they could not prevail upon him to take any sustenance.  His face was haggard and pale as death, his eyes red and bloodshot, and his very body, which had always been erect and manly, was now stooped and bent from the very intensity of his affliction.

He had been about the garden during the scene just described, and from the garden he passed round through all the office-houses, into every one of which he entered, looking at them in the stupid bereavement of grief, as if he had only noticed them for the first time.  On going into the cow-house where the animals were at their food, he approached one of them—­that which had been his wife’s favorite, and which would suffer no hand to milk her but her own—­“Oh, Bracky,” he said, “little you know who’s gone from you—­even you miss her already, for you refused for the last three days to let any one of them milk you, when she was not here to do it.  Ah, Bracky, the kind hand and the kind word that you liked so well will never be wid you more—­that low sweet song that you loved to listen to, and that