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was of death and the dream eternal. And the factory girl leaned her head on her arm and sobbed again.

In the tiny room above, the dead woman was being laid out by a neighbor; for in the Devil's Alley no one lays out their own dead. This is the last service; the inalienable privilege of friendship; nay more-it is the hallowed tradition of Mark's Place.

And because one of their number had that day left their ranks-gone forth at the summons to join the great majoritythe East End Court was hushed, and the living spoke in whispers. For the Angel of Death stood in the alley; and the shadow of his wings reached from end to end.

It was a fortnight later when I again went down the alley. This time it was to inquire for the living. So I stopped at Number 5.

In the open doorway sat an old man. He was chopping sticks with a kitchen knife. There were hard lines about his face, together with a week's stubble, while on his head was a dilapidated bowler hat that came down over his ears.

Are you Mr. McDermott?" I asked. “I am,” said he curtly. And he went on chopping sticks.

As a first meeting it was not promising, and I was rather at a loss how to proceed. It was not for a stranger to offer sympathy. So I stood and watched him while the sticks fell on the paving stones, and the alley was filled with silence.

“I believe you are an Irishman," I said presently. The remark was thrown out more or less as a fly to a salmon. I hoped he would rise to it. This he did with unexpected vigor. Indeed, had I lighted a dynamite bomb the explosion could hardly have been greater.

"An Irishman, is it ?” he ejaculated—and the half-chopped stick dropped from his hand. “An Irishman! Shure I am that; an' glory be ter God fur the same. 'Tis fr’m the County Cork I am, an' divil take the North !”

The old man threw back his head and looked at me defiantly. Standing in the doorway of the hovel with the flash of Celtic fire in his eyes, and the kitchen knife in his hand, he stood for the country that still struggled to be free.

To him I was one of the Saxons who had accompanied Strongbow into Ireland. Worse than that, I was a follower of Cromwell, who had murdered their women and children at Wexford and Drogheda. And, hardest of all to the old man, I represented the race that had framed the penal laws. Was the persecution of centuries to be wiped out by a morning call in the alley? It was not thus with the Celt. So the son of Erin stood in his doorway and glared at me.

“Yis; 'tis from Ireland I come,” said he with rising patriotism, "the land o' heroes an' o' saints. An' 'tisn't me that 'll be denyin' me religion neither,” he ejaculated, "fur I come fr'm the old stock as suffered an'—"

“And pray, where do I come in?" I interrupted.

The effect was instantaneous. Checked midway in a fight of patriotic eloquence, he gazed at me open-eyed, as if I had dropped from the clouds.

“ 'Tis niver fr'm—?". I nodded.

“Musha! musha !” His tone was incredulous. But as the novel position dawned upon him, the hard lines softened and the scowl gave place to a smile.

“Theoretically," I said, “ I'm from Tipperary.".

“Shure 'tis a fine part," he murmured. “ 'Tis almost as good as Cork.”

“Hush man!” I said, “you must have seen Tipperary in the dark !” There was an answering light in the old man's eye.

"No matter,” said I; “which ever part it is, there's no other like it."

"Thrue fur yez!” He held out his hand and seized mine. “God save Ireland, sez we.” And then with some difficulty, for it seemed like part of his anatomy—he doffed the dilapi. dated bowler. It was Cork's tribute to the County Tipperary.

“Fur 'tis theer," he said generously, “that the finest boys an' the handsomest girls come fr'm."

Here my heart smote me sore, for that I had not been born on Tipperary soil, but had inherited my nationality as a family heirloom.

“May the Almighty have ye in his keepin', an’ may the hivens be yer bed!” It was thus, with a lavish hand, that he scattered blessings upon me in the deserted alley, while my sympathy went out to the old man who stood at the hovel door where death had so lately been.

Then he told me of himself and of his sorrow; and becau

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was of death and the dream eternal. And the factory girl leaned her head on her arm and sobbed again.

In the tiny room above, the dead woman was being laid out by a neighbor; for in the Devil's Alley no one lays out their own dead. This is the last service; the inalienable privilege of friendship; nay more—it is the hallowed tradition of Mark's Place.

And because one of their number had that day left their ranks-gone forth at the summons to join the great majoritythe East End Court was hushed, and the living spoke in whispers. For the Angel of Death stood in the alley; and the shadow of his wings reached from end to end.

It was a fortnight later when I again went down the alley. This time it was to inquire for the living. So I stopped at Number 5.

In the open doorway sat an old man. He was chopping sticks with a kitchen knife. There were hard lines about his face, together with a week's stubble, while on his head was a dilapidated bowler hat that came down over his ears. . Are you Mr. McDermott ?" I asked. I am,” said he curtly. And he went on chopping sticks.

As a first meeting it was not promising, and I was rather at a loss how to proceed. It was not for a stranger to offer sympathy. So I stood and watched him while the sticks fell on the paving stones, and the alley was filled with silence.

“I believe you are an Irishman,” I said presently. The remark was thrown out more or less as a fly to a salmon. I hoped he would rise to it. This he did with unexpected vigor. Indeed, had I lighted a dynamite bomb the explosion could hardly have been greater.

“An Irishman, is it ?” he ejaculated-and the half.chopped stick dropped from his hand. “An Irishman! Shure I am that; an' glory be ter God fur the same. 'Tis fr'm the County Cork I am, an' divil take the North !”.

The old man threw back his head and looked at me defiantly. Standing in the doorway of the hovel with the flash of Celtic fire in his eyes, and the kitchen knife in his hand, he stood for the country that still struggled to be free.

To him I was one of the Saxons who had accompanied Strongbow into Ireland. Worse than that, I was a follower of Cromwell, who had murdered their women and children at Wexford and Drogheda. And, hardest of all to the old man, I represented the race that had framed the penal laws. Was the persecution of centuries to be wiped out by a morning call in the alley ? It was not thus with the Celt. So the son of Erin stood in his doorway and glared at me.

“Yis; 'tis from Ireland I come," said he with rising patriotism, "the land o'heroes an' o' saints. An' 'tisn't me that 'll be denyin' me religion neither,” he ejaculated, “fur I come fr'm the old stock as suffered an'—"

“And pray, where do I come in ?" I interrupted.

The effect was instantaneous. Checked midway in a flight of patriotic eloquence, he gazed at me open-eyed, as if I had dropped from the clouds.

“'Tis niver fr'm—?" I nodded.

“Musha! musha!” His tone was incredulous. But as the novel position dawned upon him, the hard lines softened and the scowl gave place to a smile.

“Theoretically," I said, “I'm from Tipperary."

“Shure 'tis a fine part,” he murmured. "'Tis almost as good as Cork.”

“Hush man!” I said, “ you must have seen Tipperary in the dark!” There was an answering light in the old man's eye.

“No matter," said I; “which ever part it is, there's no other like it."

“Thrue fur yez!” He held out his hand and seized mine. “God save Ireland, sez we.” And then-with some difficulty, for it seemed like part of his anatomy-he doffed the dilapi. dated bowler. It was Cork's tribute to the County Tipperary.

“Fur 'tis theer," he said generously, “that the finest boys an' the handsomest girls come fr’m.”

Here my heart smote me sore, for that I had not been born on Tipperary soil, but had inherited my nationality as a family heirloom.

“May the Almighty have ye in his keepin', an'may the hivens be yer bed!” It was thus, with a lavish hand, that he scattered blessings upon me in the deserted alley, while my sympathy went out to the old man who stood at the hovel door where death had so lately been.

Then he told me of himself and of his sorrow; and because was of death and the dream eternal. And the factory girl leaned her head on her arm and sobbed again.

In the tiny room above, the dead woman was being laid out by a neighbor; for in the Devil's Alley no one lays out their own dead. This is the last service; the inalienable privilege of friendship; nay more—it is the hallowed tradition of Mark's

Place.

And because one of their number had that day left their ranks-gone forth at the summons to join the great majoritythe East End Court was hushed, and the living spoke in whispers. For the Angel of Death stood in the alley; and the shadow of his wings reached from end to end.

It was a fortnight later when I again went down the alley. This time it was to inquire for the living. So I stopped at Number 5.

In the open doorway sat an old man. He was chopping sticks with a kitchen knife. There were hard lines about his face, together with a week's stubble, while on his head was a dilapidated bowler hat that came down over his ears.

Are you Mr. McDermott ?" I asked. “I am,” said he curtly. And he went on chopping sticks.

As a first meeting it was not promising, and I was rather at a loss how to proceed. It was not for a stranger to offer sympathy. So I stood and watched him while the sticks fell on the paving stones, and the alley was filled with silence.

“I believe you are an Irishman,” I said presently. The remark was thrown out more or less as a Ay to a salmon. I hoped he would rise to it. This he did with unexpected vigor. Indeed, had I lighted a dynamite bomb the explosion could hardly have been greater.

“An Irishman, is it?" he ejaculated—and the half-chopped stick dropped from his hand. “An Irishman! Shure I am that; an' glory be ter God fur the same. 'Tis fr'm the County Cork I am, an' divil take the North !”.

The old man threw back his head and looked at me defiantly. Standing in the doorway of the hovel with the flash of Celtic fire in his eyes, and the kitchen knife in his hand, he stood for the country that still struggled to be free.

To him I was one of the Saxons who had accompanied Strongbow into Ireland. Worse than that, I was a follower of Cromwell, who had murdered their women and children at

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