he, "Madame, I regret to inform you that Matthew Kilquhanity is dying."
"Dying, is he?" said the woman, with a sudden change of voice and manner, but her whine did not ring true. "The poor darlin’! and only that Irish hag to care for him! Has he made a will?" she added eagerly.
Kilquhanity had made no will, and the little house on the hillside, and all that he had, belonged to this woman who had spoiled the first part of his life, and had come now to spoil the last part.
An hour later the Avocat, the Curé, and the two women stood in the chief room of the little house on the hillside. The door was shut between the two rooms, and the Little Chemist was with Kilquhanity. The Curé’s hand was on the arm of the first wife and the Avocat’s upon the arm of the second. The two women were glaring eye to eye, having just finished as fine a torrent of abuse of each other and of Kilquhanity as can be imagined. Kilquhanity himself, with the sorrow of death upon him, though he knew it not, had listened to the brawl, his chickens come home to roost at last. The first Mrs. Kilquhanity had sworn, with an oath that took no account of the Curé’s presence, that not a stick nor a stone nor a rag nor a penny should that Irish slattern have of Matthew Kilquhanity’s!
The Curé and the Avocat had quieted them at last, and the Curé spoke sternly now to both women.
"In the presence of death," said he, "have done with your sinful clatter. Stop quarrelling over a dying man. Let him go in peace! Let him go in peace! If I hear one word more," he added sternly, "I will
