“You are right, Jerry, but as for me, I say whatever prayers I do say, always by myself; for I can then get my mind fixed upon them betther.  I’ll just turn into bed, then, for troth I feel a little stiff and tired; so you must only let me have my own way to-night.  To-morrow night I’ll pray double.”  He then withdrew to his appointed place of rest, where, after having partially undressed himself, he lay down, and for some time could hear no other sound than the solemn voices of this struggling and afflicted little fold, as they united in offering up their pious and simple act of worship to that Great Being, in whose providential care they felt such humble and confiding trust.

When their devotions were concluded, they quietly, and in a spirit at once of resignation and melancholy, repaired to their respective sleeping places, with the exception of old Sullivan himself, who, after some hesitation, took down the great coat already so markedly alluded to—­and exclaiming, partly to those within hearing—­

“I don’t know—­but still there can’t be any harm in it; sure it’s betther that it should be doin’ some good than hangin’ up there idle, against the wall, such a night as this.  Here, Dan, for the first time since I put it up wid my own hands, except to shake the dust off of it, I’m goin’ to turn this big coat to some use.  There,” he added, spreading it over them; “let it help to keep you warm to-night—­for God knows, you want it, you an’ them poor gorsoons.  Your coverin’ is but light, an’ you may hear the downpowrin’ of rain that’s in it; an’ the wind, too, is risin’ fast, every minute—­gettin’ so strong, indeed, that I doubt it ‘ill be a storm before it stops; an’ Dan, if it ’udn’t be too much, may be you’d not object to offer up one pather an’ avy for the poor sowl of him that owned it, an’ that was brought to his account so suddenly and so terribly.  There,” he added, fixing it upon them; “it helps to keep you warm at any rate; an’ it’s surely betther to have it so employed than hangin’ idle, as I said, against the wall.”

M’Gowan immediately sat up in the bed, and putting down his hands, removed the coat.

“We don’t want it at all,” he replied; “take it away, Jerry—­do, for heaven’s sake.  The night’s not at all so cowld as you think, an’ we’ll keep one another warm enough wid-out it, never fear.”

“Troth you do want it,” said Sullivan; “for fareer gair, it’s the light coverin’ that’s over you an’ them, poor boys.  Heighho, Dan, see what innocence is—­poor things, they’re sound already—­an’ may God pity them an’ provide for them, or enable me to do it!” And as he looked down upon the sleeping lads, the tears came so abundantly to his eyes, that he was forced to wipe them away.  “Keep the coat, Dan,” he added; “you do want it.”

“No,” replied the other.  “The truth is, I couldn’t sleep under it.  I’m very timersome, an’ a little thing frightens me.”

“Oh,” said Sullivan, “I didn’t think of that:  in troth, if you’re timersome, it’s more than the world b’lieves of you.  Well, well—­I’ll hang it up again; so good night, an’ a sound sleep to you, an’ to every man that has a free conscience in the sight of God!”