“It is said,” replied Hycy, “that a fool may propose a question which a wise man can’t answer.  As to religion, I have not yet made any determination among the variety that is abroad.  A man, however, can be at no loss; for as every one of them is the best, it matters little which of them he chooses.  I think it likely I shall go to church with your sister, should we ever do matrimony together.  To a man like me who’s indifferent, respectability alone ought to determine.”

Clinton made no reply to this; and in a few minutes afterward they entered the churchyard, the coffin having been taken out of the hearse and borne on the shoulders of her four nearest relatives,—­Tom M’Mahon, in deep silence and affliction, preceding it as chief mourner.

There is a prostrating stupor, or rather a kind of agonizing delirium that comes over the mind when we are forced to mingle with crowds, and have our ears filled with the voices of lamentation, the sounds of the death-bell, or the murmur of many people in conversation.  ’Twas thus M’Mahon felt during the whole procession.  Sometimes he thought it was relief, and again he felt as if it was only the mere alternation of suffering into a sharper and more dreadful sorrow; for, change as it might, there lay tugging at his heart the terrible consciousness that she, I the bride of his youthful love and the companion of his larger and more manly affection—­the blameless wife and the stainless woman—­was about to be consigned to the grave, and that his eyes in this life must; never rest upon her again.

When the coffin was about to be lowered down, all the family, one after another, clasped their arms about it, and kissed it with a passionate fervor of grief that it was impossible to witness with firmness.  At length her husband, who had been looking on, approached it, and clasping it in his arms like the rest, he said—­“for ever and for ever, and for ever, Bridget—­but, no, gracious God, no; the day will come, Bridget, when I will be with you here—­I don’t care now how soon.  My happiness is gone, asthore machree—­life is nothing to me now—­all’s empty; and there’s neither joy, nor ease of mind, nor comfort for me any more.  An’ this is our last parting—­this is our last farewell, Bridget dear; but from this out my hope is to be with you here; and if nothing else on my bed of death was to console me, it would be, and it will be, that you and I will then sleep together, never to be parted more.  That will be my consolation.”

“Now, father dear,” said Bryan, “we didn’t attempt to stop or prevent you, and I hope you’ll be something calm and come away for a little.”

“Best of sons! but aren’t you all good, for how could you be otherwise with her blood in your veins?—­bring me away; come you, Dora darlin’—­ay, that’s it—­support the:  blessed child between you and Hanna, Kathleen darlin’.  Oh, wait, wait till we get out of hearin, or the noise of the clay fallin’ on the coffin will kill me.”