I went in on tiptoe.  The room through the lace end of the blind was suffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked like pale thin flames.  He had been coffined.  Nannie gave the lead and we three knelt down at the foot of the bed.  I pretended to pray but I could not gather my thoughts because the old woman’s mutterings distracted me.  I noticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how the heels of her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side.  The fancy came to me that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin.

But no.  When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw that he was not smiling.  There he lay, solemn and copious, vested as for the altar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice.  His face was very truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous nostrils and circled by a scanty white fur.  There was a heavy odour in the room—­the flowers.

We crossed ourselves and came away.  In the little room downstairs we found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state.  I groped my way towards my usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the sideboard and brought out a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses.  She set these on the table and invited us to take a little glass of wine.  Then, at her sister’s bidding, she filled out the sherry into the glasses and passed them to us.  She pressed me to take some cream crackers also but I declined because I thought I would make too much noise eating them.  She seemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusal and went over quietly to the sofa where she sat down behind her sister.  No one spoke:  we all gazed at the empty fireplace.

My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said: 

“Ah, well, he’s gone to a better world.”

Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent.  My aunt fingered the stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little.

“Did he... peacefully?” she asked.

“Oh, quite peacefully, ma’am,” said Eliza.  “You couldn’t tell when the breath went out of him.  He had a beautiful death, God be praised.”

“And everything...?”

“Father O’Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and prepared him and all.”

“He knew then?”

“He was quite resigned.”

“He looks quite resigned,” said my aunt.

“That’s what the woman we had in to wash him said.  She said he just looked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned.  No one would think he’d make such a beautiful corpse.”

“Yes, indeed,” said my aunt.

She sipped a little more from her glass and said: 

“Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you to know that you did all you could for him.  You were both very kind to him, I must say.”

Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.

“Ah, poor James!” she said.  “God knows we done all we could, as poor as we are—­we wouldn’t see him want anything while he was in it.”