“I don’t doubt that,” said the son, fiercely; “you never showed me much grah, (* affection) sure enough.”

“Did you ever desarve it?” replied the father.  “Heaven above me knows it was too much kindness was showed you.  When you ought to have been well corrected, you got your will an’ your way, an’ now see the upshot.”

“Well,” said the son, “it’s the last day ever I’ll stay in the family; thrate me as bad as you plase.  I’ll take the king’s bounty, an’ list, if I live to see to-morrow.”

“Oh, thin, in the name o’ Goodness, do so,” said the father; “an’ so far from previntin’ you, we’ll bless you when you’re gone, for goin’.”

“Arrah, Frank, aroon,” said Mrs. M’Kenna, who was now recovered, “maybe, afther all, it was only an accident:  sure we often hard of sich things.  Don’t you remimber Squire Elliott’s son, that shot himself by accident, out fowlin’?  Frank, can you clear yourself before us?”

“Ah, Alley!  Alley!” exclaimed the father, wiping away his tears, “don’t you remimber his oath, last night?”

“What oath?” inquired the son, with an air of surprise—­“What oath, last night?  I know I was drunk last night, but I remimber nothing about an oath.”

“Do you deny it, you hardened boy?”

“I do deny it; an’ I’m not a hardened boy.  What do you all mane? do you want to dhrive me mad?  I know nothin’ about any oath last night;” replied the son in a loud voice.  The grief of the mother and daughters was loud during the pauses of the conversation.  Micaul, the eldest son, sat beside his father in tears.

“Frank,” said he, “many an advice I gave you between ourselves, and you know how you tuck them.  When you’d stale the oats, an’ the meal, and the phaties, an’ hay, at night, to have money for your cards an’ dhrinkin’, I kept it back, an’ said nothin’ about it.  I wish I hadn’t done so, for it wasn’t for your good:  but it was my desire to have, as much pace and quietness as possible.”

“Frank,” said the father, eyeing him solemnly, “it’s possible that you do forget the oath you made last night, for you war in liquor:  I would give the wide world that it was thrue.  Can you now, in the presence of God, clear yourself of havin’ act or part in the death of Mike Reillaghan?”

“What ’ud ail me,” said the son, “if I liked?”

“Will you do it now for our satisfaction, an’ take a load of misery off of our hearts?  It’s the laste you may do, if you can do it.  In the presence of the great God, will you clear yourself now?”

“I suppose,” said the son, “I’ll have to clear myself to-morrow, an’ there’s no use in my doin’ it more that wanst.  When the time comes, I’ll do it.”

The father put his hands on his eyes, and groaned aloud:  so deep was his affliction, that the tears trickled through his fingers during this fresh burst of sorrow.  The son’s refusal to satisfy them renewed the grief of all, as well as of the father:  it rose again, louder than before, whilst young Frank sat opposite the door, silent and sullen.