“Oh， quite peacefully， ma’am，” said Eliza. “You couldn’ttell 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 anointedhim 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. Shesaid he just looked as if he was asleep， he looked that peacefuland resigned. No one would think he’d make such a beautifulcorpse.”
“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 foryou to know that you did all you could for him. You were bothvery kind to him， I must say.”
Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.
“Ah， poor James！” she said. “God knows we done all wecould， as poor as we are—we wouldn’t see him want anythingwhile he was in it.”
Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow andseemed about to fall asleep.
“There’s poor Nannie，” said Eliza， looking at her， “she’swore out. All the work we had， she and me， getting in thewoman to wash him and then laying him out and then thecoffin and then arranging about the Mass in the chapel. Onlyfor Father O’rourke I don’t know what we’d have done atall. It was him brought us all them flowers and them twocandlesticks out of the chapel and wrote out the notice for theFreeman’s General and took charge of all the papers for thecemetery and poor James’s insurance.”
“Wasn’t that good of him？” said my aunt
Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.
“Ah， there’s no friends like the old friends，” she said， “whenall is said and done， no friends that a body can trust.”
“Indeed， that’s true，” said my aunt. “And I’m sure now thathe’s gone to his eternal reward he won’t forget you and allyour kindness to him.”
“Ah， poor James！” said Eliza. “He was no great trouble tous. You wouldn’t hear him in the house any more than now.
Still， I know he’s gone and all to that....”
“It’s when it’s all over that you’ll miss him，” said my aunt.
“I know that，” said Eliza. “I won’t be bringing him in his cupof beef-tea any more， nor you， ma’am， sending him his snuff.
Ah， poor James！”
She stopped， as if she were communing with the past andthen said shrewdly：
“Mind you， I noticed there was something queer comingover him latterly. Whenever I’d bring in his soup to him thereI’d find him with his breviary fallen to the floor， lying back inthe chair and his mouth open.”
She laid a finger against her nose and frowned： then shecontinued：
“But still and all he kept on saying that before the summerwas over he’d go out for a drive one fine day just to see theold house again where we were all born down in Irishtown andtake me and Nannie with him. If we could only get one of themnew-fangled carriages that makes no noise that Father O’rourketold him about—them with the rheumatic wheels—for the daycheap—he said， at Johnny Rush’s over the way there and driveout the three of us together of a Sunday evening. He had hismind set on that.... Poor James！”
“The Lord have mercy on his soul！” said my aunt.
Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it.
Then she put it back again in her pocket and gazed into theempty grate for some time without speaking.
“He was too scrupulous always，” she said. “The duties of thepriesthood was too much for him. And then his life was， youmight say， crossed.”
“Yes，” said my aunt. “He was a disappointed man. You couldsee that.”
A silence took possession of the little room and， under coverof it， I approached the table and tasted my sherry and thenreturned quietly to my chair in the comer. Eliza seemed tohave fallen into a deep revery. We waited respectfully for herto break the silence： and after a long pause she said slowly：
“It was that chalice he broke.... That was the beginning of it.
Of course， they say it was all right， that it contained nothing，I mean. But still.... They say it was the boy’s fault. But poorJames was so nervous， God be merciful to him！”
“And was that it？” said my aunt. “I heard something....”
Eliza nodded.
“That affected his mind，” she said. “After that he began tomope by himself， talking to no one and wandering about byhimself. So one night he was wanted for to go on a call andthey couldn’t find him anywhere. They looked high up and lowdown； and still they couldn’t see a sight of him anywhere. Sothen the clerk suggested to try the chapel. So then they got thekeys and opened the chapel and the clerk and Father O’rourkeand another priest that was there brought in a light for to lookfor him.... And what do you think but there he was， sitting upby himself in the dark in his confession-box， wide-awake andlaughing-like softly to himself？”
She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened； but therewas no sound in the house： and I knew that the old priestwas lying still in his coffin as we had seen him， solemn andtruculent in death， an idle chalice on his breast.
Eliza resumed：
“Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then， ofcourse， when they saw that， that made them think that therewas something gone wrong with him....”