“Art,” said he, “you know I never was a man of many words; and I’m not goin’ to turn over a new lafe now.  To scould you is not my intention—­nor to listen to your promises.  All I have to say is, that you have broken your word, and disgraced your name.  As for me, I can put neither confidence nor trust in you any longer; neither will I.”

A single tear was visible on his cheek as he passed out of the room; and when he did, Art’s violent sobs were quite audible.  Indeed, if truth must be told, Frank’s distress was nearly equal to his brother’s.  What, however, was to be done?  He was too ill to attend his business, a circumstance which only heightened his distress; for he knew that difficult as was the task of encountering his master, and those who would only enjoy his remorse, still even that was less difficult to be borne than the scourge of his own reflections.  At length a thought occurred, which appeared to give him some relief; that thought he felt was all that now remained to him, for as it was clear that he could no longer depend on himself, it was necessary that he should find something else on which to depend.  He accordingly sent an intimation to his master that he wished to have a few minutes’ conversation with him, if he could spare time; M’Carroll accordingly came, and found him in a state which excited the worthy man’s compassion.

“Well, Art,” said he, “what is it you wish to speak to me about?  I hear you were drunk last night.  Now I thought you had more sense than to let these fellows put you into such a pickle.  I have a fine, well-conducted set of men in general; but there is among them a hardened, hackneyed crew, who, because they are good workmen, don’t care a curse about either you or me, or anybody else.  They’re always sure of employment, if not here, at least elsewhere, or, indeed, anywhere.”

“But it wasn’t their fault,” replied Art, “it was altogether my own; they were opposed to my drinkin’ at all, especially as they knew that I promised Frank never to get drunk agin.  It was when Syl Harte proposed Frank’s health, that I drank the whiskey in spite o’ them.”

“Syl Harte,” said his master with a smile, “ay, I was thinkin’ so; well, no matter, Art, have strength and resolution not to do the like again.”

“But that’s the curse, sir,” replied the young man, “I have neither the one nor the other, and it’s on that account I sent for you.”

“How is that, Art?”

“Why,” said the other, “I am goin’ to bind myself—­I am goin’ to swear against it, and so to make short work of it, and for fraid any one might prevent me”—­he blessed himself, and proceeded—­“I now, in the presence of God, swear upon this blessed manwil (* Manual) that a drop of spirituous drink, or liquor of any kind, won’t cross my lips for the next seven years, barrin’ it may be necessary as medicine;” he then kissed the book three times, blessed himself again, and sat down considerably relieved.