“That is Tom’s voice I hear,” said he, “and I must put an end to this.”  He accordingly made his appearance rather unexpectedly among them, and approaching his son, said, putting his hand commandingly upon his shoulder, and looking in his face with a solemn consciousness of authority that was irresistible, “I command you, Tom, to stop.  It’s not many commands that I’ll ever give you—­maybe this will be the last—­and it’s not many ever I had occasion to give you, but now I command you to stop and let the funeral go on.”  He paused for a short time and looked upon the features of his son with a full sense of what was due to his authority.  His great age, his white hairs, his venerable looks and bearing, and the reverence which the tremulous but earnest tones of his voice were calculated to inspire, filled his son with awe, and he was silent.

“Father,” said he, “I will; I’ll try and obey you—­I will.”

“God bless you and comfort you, my dear son,” said the old man.  “Keep silence, now,” he proceeded, addressing the others, “and bring the coffin to the hearse at wanst.  And may God strengthen and support you all, for it’s I that knows your loss; but like a good mother as she was, she has left none but good and dutiful childre’ behind her.”

Poor Dora, during the whole morning, had imposed a task upon herself that was greater than her affectionate and sorrowing heart could bear.  She was very pale and exhausted by the force of what she had felt, and her excessive weeping; but it was observed that she now appeared to manifest a greater degree of fortitude than any of the rest.  Still, during this assumed calmness, the dear girl, every now and then, could not help uttering a short convulsive sob, that indicated at once her physical debility and extraordinary grief.  She was evidently incapable of entering into conversation, or at least, averse to it, and was consequently very silent during the whole morning.  As they stooped, however, to remove the coffin, she threw herself upon it, exclaiming, “Mother, its your own Dora—­mother—­mother—­don’t, mother—­don’t lave me don’t—­I won’t let her go—­I won’t let her go!  I—­I—­” Even before she could utter the words she intended to say, her head sank down, and her pale but beautiful cheek lay exactly beside the name, Bridget M’Mahon, that was upon it.

“The poor child has fainted,” they exclaimed, “bring her to the fresh air.”

Ere any one had time, however, to raise her, James Cavanagh rushed over to the coffin, and seizing her in his arms, bore her to the street, where he placed her upon one of the chairs that had been left there to support the coffin until keened over by the relatives and friends, previous to its being-placed in the hearse; for such is the custom.  There is something exceedingly alarming in a swoon to a person who witnesses it for the first time; which was the case with James Cavanagh.  Having placed her on the chair, he looked wildly upon her; then as wildly upon those who were crowding round him.  “What ails her?” he exclaimed—­“what ails her?—­she is dead!—­she is dead!  Dora—­Dora dear—­Dora dear, can’t you spake or hear me?”