emains of the "Little
Grant" were consigned to the tomb. Many a hero whose name is honored for
victories won in hard-fought battles had gone to the city of the dead
with less show of honor and respect. It was not that Dr. Cronin had more
noble attributes than many other men that the people in tens of
thousands turned out to witness the funeral march. It was the
involuntary sympathy that went out to one whose death was so tragic,
and--at that time--shrouded in so deep a mystery. There was, of course,
the crowd that is always to be found at every public demonstration, be
it what it may. But there were thousands upon thousands that had been
drawn to the scene by a desire to testify, in their humble way, their
sorrow and indignation that such a crime had befouled the fair name of
the city, and there was not one face in the vast concourse that lined
the streets through which the procession passed that did not wear a look
of solemnity.

LYING IN STATE.

All through the night of May 25th the casket containing the body of the
victim reposed on the catafalque in the First Cavalry Armory. At each
corner of the catafalque a sentry, in the uniform of the Hibernian
Rifles, stood immovable as a statue. It was a lonely vigil, and it was
not broken until six o'clock of the Sabbath morning. Even at that early
hour, while the church bells were ringing out their summons to those
accustomed to attend the first or daylight mass, a large crowd had
gathered outside of the Armory. Half an hour later a squad of the
Central Police detail, under command of Lieutenant Wilson, arrived at
the building. The officers were drawn up in two lines on either side of
the entrance, the doors were thrown open, and the people in waiting
commenced to enter. And so for hours a living stream poured into the
building, and past the catafalque, with its draping of American flags,
its burning candles and golden crucifix, and its tributes of ferns and
roses, hyacinths and daisies which reposed at the head and feet of the
casket. They came in so rapidly that the attempt to keep a count was
soon abandoned. There were old men and young; girls and white-haired
matrons. Children hardly able to toddle led the aged men, walking with
faltering, uncertain steps. Parents took their little ones, and the
little ones their grandparents. Laborers walked beside bankers,
mechanics ascended the platform elbow to elbow with citizens of national
eminence, and together they looked do