“That’s my principle, too,” said my uncle.  “Let him learn to box his corner.  That’s what I’m always saying to that Rosicrucian there:  take exercise.  Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a cold bath, winter and summer.  And that’s what stands to me now.  Education is all very fine and large....  Mr. Cotter might take a pick of that leg mutton,” he added to my aunt.

“No, no, not for me,” said old Cotter.

My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table.

“But why do you think it’s not good for children, Mr. Cotter?” she asked.

“It’s bad for children,” said old Cotter, “because their mind are so impressionable.  When children see things like that, you know, it has an effect....”

I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my anger.  Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!

It was late when I fell asleep.  Though I was angry with old Cotter for alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning from his unfinished sentences.  In the dark of my room I imagined that I saw again the heavy grey face of the paralytic.  I drew the blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas.  But the grey face still followed me.  It murmured, and I understood that it desired to confess something.  I felt my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; and there again I found it waiting for me.  It began to confess to me in a murmuring voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so moist with spittle.  But then I remembered that it had died of paralysis and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniac of his sin.

The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little house in Great Britain Street.  It was an unassuming shop, registered under the vague name of Drapery .  The drapery consisted mainly of children’s bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the window, saying:  Umbrellas Re-covered .  No notice was visible now for the shutters were up.  A crape bouquet was tied to the doorknocker with ribbon.  Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned on the crape.  I also approached and read: 

July 1st, 1895
The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine’s Church,
Meath Street), aged sixty-five years. 
R. I. P.

The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was disturbed to find myself at check.  Had he not been dead I would have gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting in his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat.  Perhaps my aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and this present would have roused him from his stupefied doze.  It was always I who emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled too much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff about the floor.  Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nose little clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat.  It may have been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient priestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief, blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.