I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courageto knock. I walked away slowly along the sunny side ofthe street， reading all the theatrical advertisements in theshopwindows as I went. I found it strange that neither I northe day seemed in a mourning mood and I felt even annoyedat discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I hadbeen freed from something by his death. I wondered at thisfor， as my uncle had said the night before， he had taught me agreat deal. He had studied in the Irish college in Rome and hehad taught me to pronounce Latin properly. He had told mestories about the catacombs and about Napoleon Bonaparte，and he had explained to me the meaning of the differentceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments wornby the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by puttingdifficult questions to me， asking me what one should do incertain circumstances or whether such and such sins weremortal or venial or only imperfections. His questions showedme how complex and mysterious were certain institutions ofthe Church which I had always regarded as the simplest acts.
The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and towardsthe secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that Iwondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courageto undertake them； and I was not surprised when he told methat the fathers of the Church had written books as thick as thePost Office Directory and as closely printed as the law noticesin the newspaper， elucidating all these intricate questions.
Often when I thought of this I could make no answer or onlya very foolish and halting one upon which he used to smileand nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to putme through the responses of the Mass which he had made melearn by heart； and， as I pattered， he used to smile pensivelyand nod his head， now and then pushing huge pinches of snuffup each nostril alternately. When he smiled he used to uncoverhis big discoloured teeth and let his tongue lie upon his lowerlip—a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the beginningof our acquaintance before I knew him well.
As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter’swords and tried to remember what had happened afterwardsin the dream. I remembered that I had noticed long velvetcurtains and a swinging lamp of antique fashion. I felt that Ihad been very far away， in some land where the customs werestrange—in Persia， I thought.... But I could not remember theend of the dream.
In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the houseof mourning. It was after sunset； but the window-panes of thehouses that looked to the west reflected the tawny gold of agreat bank of clouds. Nannie received us in the hall； and， asit would have been unseemly to have shouted at her， my auntshook hands with her for all. The old woman pointed upwardsinterrogatively and， on my aunt’s nodding， proceeded to toilup the narrow staircase before us， her bowed head beingscarcely above the level of the banister-rail. At the first landingshe stopped and beckoned us forward encouragingly towardsthe open door of the dead-room. My aunt went in and the oldwoman， seeing that I hesitated to enter， began to beckon to meagain repeatedly with her hand.
I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of theblind was suffused with dusky golden light amid which thecandles looked like pale thin flames. He had been coffined.
Nannie gave the lead and we three knelt down at the foot ofthe bed. I pretended to pray but I could not gather my thoughtsbecause the old woman’s mutterings distracted me. I noticedhow clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how theheels of her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side.
The fancy came to me that the old priest was smiling as he laythere in his coffin.
But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed Isaw that he was not smiling. There he lay， solemn and copious，vested as for the altar， his large hands loosely retaining achalice. His face was very truculent， grey and massive， withblack cavernous nostrils and circled by a scanty white fur.
There was a heavy odour in the room—the flowers.
We blessed ourselves and came away. In the little roomdownstairs we found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. Igroped my way towards my usual chair in the corner whileNannie went to the sideboard and brought out a decanter ofsherry and some wine-glasses. She set these on the table andinvited us to take a little glass of wine. Then， at her sister’sbidding， she filled out the sherry into the glasses and passedthem to us. She pressed me to take some cream crackers alsobut I declined because I thought I would make too much noiseeating them. She seemed to be somewhat disappointed at myrefusal and went over quietly to the sofa where she sat downbehind her sister. No one spoke： we all gazed at the emptyfireplace.
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 auntfingered the stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little.
“Did he... peacefully？” she asked.