I had published my first book of poems by subscription, O'Leary finding
many subscribers, and a book of stories, when I heard that my grandmother
was dead and went to Sligo for the funeral. She had asked to see me but by
some mistake I was not sent for. She had heard that I was much about with
a beautiful, admired woman and feared that I did not speak of marriage
because I was poor, and wanted to say to me "women care nothing about
money." My grandfather was dying also and only survived her a few weeks. I
went to see him and wondered at his handsome face now sickness had refined
it, and noticed that he foretold the changes in the weather by
indications of the light and of the temperature that could not have told
me anything. As I sat there my old childish fear returned and I was glad
to get away. I stayed with my uncle whose house was opposite where my
grandfather lived, and walking home with him one day we met the doctor.
The doctor said there was no hope and that my grandfather should be told,
but my uncle would not allow it. He said "it would make a man mad to know
he was dying." In vain the doctor pleaded that he had never known a man
not made calmer by the knowledge. I listened sad and angry, but my uncle
always took a low view of human nature, his very tolerance which was
exceedingly great came from his hoping nothing of anybody. Before he had
given way my grandfather lifted up his arms and cried out "there she is,"
and fell backward dead. Before he was dead, old servants of that house
where there had never been noise or disorder began their small pilferings,
and after his death there was a quarrel over the disposition of certain
mantle-piece ornaments of no value.