“Poor Pether! he’s nearly off; an’ a dacent, kind neighbor he ever was.  The death of the wife broke his heart—­he never ris his head since.”

“Ay, poor man!  God pity him!  Hell soon be sleepin’ beside her, beyant there, where she’s lyin’.  It was never known of Peter Connell that he offinded man, woman, or child since he was born, barrin’ the gaugers, bad luck to thim, afore he was marrid—­but that was no offince.  Sowl, he was their match, any how.  When he an’ the wife’s gone, they won’t lave their likes behind them.  The sons are bodaghs—­gintlemen, now; an’ it’s nothin’ but dinners an’ company.  Ahagur, that wasn’t the way their hardworkin’ father an’ mother made the money that they’re houldin’ their heads up wid such consequence upon.”

The children, however, did not give Peter up as hopeless.  Father Mulcahy, too, once-more assailed him on his weak side.  One morning, when he was sober, nervous, and depressed, the priest arrived, and finding him at home, addressed him as follows:—­

“Peter, I’m sorry, and vexed, and angry this morning; and you are the cause of it”

“How is that, your Reverence?” said Peter.  “God help me,” he added, “don’t be hard an me, sir, for I’m to be pitied.  Don’t be hard on me, for the short time I’ll be here.  I know it won’t be long—­I’ll be wid her soon.  Asthore machree, we’ll’ be together, I hope, afore long—­an’, oh! if it was the will o’ God, I would be glad if it was afore night!”

The poor, shattered, heart-broken creature wept bitterly, for he felt somewhat sensible of the justice of the reproof which he expected from the priest, as well as undiminished sorrow for his wife.

“I’m not going to be hard on you,” said the good-natured priest; “I only called to tell you a dream that your son Dan had last night about you and his mother.”

“About Ellish!  Oh, for heaven’s sake what about her, Father, avourneen?”

“She appeared to him, last night,” replied Father Mulcahy, “and told him that your drinking kept her out of happiness.”

“Queen of heaven!” exclaimed Peter, deeply affected, “is that true?  Oh,” said he, dropping on his knees, “Father, ahagur machree, pardon me—­oh, forgive me!  I now promise, solemnly and seriously, to drink neither in the house nor out of it, for the time to come, not one drop at all, good, bad, or indifferent, of either whiskey, wine, or punch—­barrin’ one glass.  Are you now satisfied? an’ do you think she’ll get to happiness?”

“All will be well, I trust,” said the priest.  “I shall mention this to Dan and the rest, and depend upon it, they, too, will be happy to hear it.”

“Here’s what Mr. O’Flaherty an’ myself made up,” said Peter:  “burn it, Father; take it out of my sight, for it’s now no use to me.”

“What is this at all?” said Mr. Mulcahy, looking into it.  “Is it an oath?”

“It’s the Joggraphy of one I swore some time ago; but it’s now out of date—­I’m done wid it.”