“Connell,” said the lady, “you will break down your constitution, and bring yourself to an earlier death than you would otherwise meet.”

“I care very little, indeed, how soon I was dead, not makin’ you, Ma’am, an ill answer.”

“Oh fie, Connell, for you, a sensible man and a Christian, to talk in such a manner!”

“Throth, thin, I don’t, Ma’am.  She’s gone, an’ I’d be glad to folly her as soon as I could.  Yes, asthore, you’re departed from me! an’ now I’m gone asthray—­out o’ the right an’ out o’ the good!  Oh, Ma’am,” he proceeded, whilst the tears rolled fast down his cheeks, “if you knew her—­her last words, too—­Oh, she was—­she was—­but where’s the use o’ sayin’ what she was?—­I beg your pardon, Ma’am,—­your honor, sir, ’ill forgive my want o’ manners, sure I know it’s bad breedin’, but I can’t help it.”

“Well, promise,” said his landlord, “to give up drink.  Indeed, I wish you would take an oath against it:  you are a conscientious man, and I know would keep it, otherwise I should not propose it, for I discountenance such oaths generally.  Will you promise me this, Connell?”

“I’ll promise to think of it, your honor,—­aginst takin’ a sartin quantity, at any rate.”

“If you refuse it, I’ll think you are unmindful of the good feeling which we have ever shown your family.”

“What?—­do you think, sir, I’m ungrateful to you?  That’s a sore cut, sir, to make a villain o’ me.  Where’s the book?—­I’ll swear this minute.  Have you a Bible, Ma’am?—­I’ll show you that I’m not mane, any way.”

“No, Connell, you shall not do it rashly; you must be cool and composed:  but go home, and turn it in your mind,” she replied; “and remember, that it is the request of me and my husband, for your own good.”

“Neither must you swear before me,” said his landlord, “but before Mr. Mulcahy, who, as it is an oath connected with your moral conduct, is the best person to be present.  It must be voluntary, however.  Now, good-bye, Connell, and think of what we said; but take care never to carry home any of my servants in the same plight in which you put John Smith to-day.”

“Faix thin, sir, he had no business, wid your honor’s livery upon his back, to begin lecthurin’ me again dhrinkin’, as he did.  We may all do very well, sir, till the timptation crasses us—­but that’s what thries us.  It thried him, but he didn’t stand it—­faix he didn’t!—­ha, ha, ha!  Good-mornin’, sir—­God bless you, Ma’am!  Divil resave the family in all Europe”—­

“Good-morning, Connell—­good-morning! —­Pray remember what we said.”

Peter, however, could not relinquish the whiskey.  His sons, daughters, friends, and neighbors, all assailed him, but with no success.  He either bantered them in his usual way, or reverted to his loss, and sank into sorrow.  This last was the condition in which they found him most intractable; for a man is never considered to be in a state that admits of reasoning or argument, when he is known to be pressed by strong gushes of personal feeling.  A plan at length struck Father Mulcahy, which lie resolved to put into immediate execution.