"
Poor Dora, during the whole morning, had imposed a task upon herself
that was greater than her affectionate and sorrowing heart could bear.
She was very pale and exhausted by the force of what she had felt, and
her excessive weeping; but it was observed that she now appeared to
manifest a greater degree of fortitude than any of the rest. Still,
during this assumed calmness, the dear girl, every now and then, could
not help uttering a short convulsive sob, that indicated at once her
physical debility and extraordinary grief. She was evidently incapable
of entering into conversation, or at least, averse to it, and was
consequently very silent during the whole morning. As they stooped,
however, to remove the coffin, she threw herself upon it, exclaiming,
"Mother, its your own Dora--mother--mother--don't, mother--don't lave me
don't--I won't let her go--I won't let her go! I--I--" Even before she
could utter the words she intended to say, her head sank down, and her
pale but beautiful cheek lay exactly beside the name, Bridget M'Mahon,
that was upon it.
"The poor child has fainted," they exclaimed, "bring her to the fresh
air."
Ere any one had time, however, to raise her, James Cavanagh rushed over
to the coffin, and seizing her in his arms, bore her to the street,
where he placed her upon one of the chairs that had been left there
to support the coffin until keened over by the relatives and friends,
previous to its being-placed in the hearse; for such is the custom.
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