CHAPTER XIX.
In a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture.
A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered.
"Well," said he, "Mag's dead." "What ?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread.
"Mag's dead," repeated the man.
"Deh hell she is," said the woman.

She continued her meal.

When she finished her coffee she began to weep.
"I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she weared worsted boots," moaned she.
"Well, whata dat ?" said the man.
"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried.
The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog.

A dozen women entered and lamented with her.

Under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted.
Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms.