“Very little jorum will go far wid me, you know, Art,” replied his brother; “an’ if you take my advice, you’ll not go beyond bounds yourself either.”

“Throth, Frank, an’ I’ll not take either yours nor any other body’s, until little Kate’s christened.  I think that afther a fast of seven years I’m entitled to a stretch.”

“Well, well,” said his brother; “I see you’re on for it; but as you said yourself a while ago, it’s best to be on the safe side, you know.”

“Why, dang it, Frank, sure you don’t imagine I’m goin’ to drink the town dhry; there’s raison in everything.”

At length the kettle was boiled, and the punch made; Art took his tumbler in hand, and rose up; he looked at it, then glanced at his brother, who observed that he got pale and agitated.

“What ails you?” said he; “is there any thing wrong wid you?”

“I’m thinkin’,” replied Art, “of what I suffered wanst by it; an’ besides, it’s so long since I tasted it, that somehow I jist feel for all the world as if the oath was scarcely off of me yet, or as if I was doin’ what’s not right.”

“That’s mere weakness,” said Frank; “but still, if you have any scruple, don’t drink it; I bekaise the truth is, Art, you couldn’t have a scruple that will do you more good than one against liquor.”

“Well, I’ll only take this tumbler an’ another to-night; and then we’ll go to bed, plase goodness.”

His agitation then passed away, and he drank a portion of the liquor.

“I’m thinkin’, Art,” said Frank, “that it wouldn’t be aisy to find two men that has a betther right to be thankful to God for the good fortune we’ve both had, than yourself and me.  The Lord has been good, to me, for I’m thrivin’ to my heart’s content, and savin’ money every day.”

“And glory be to his holy name,” said Art, looking with a strong sense of religious feeling upward, “so am I; and if we both hould to this, we’ll die rich, plaise goodness.  I have saved up very well, too; and here I sit this night as happy a man as is in Europe.  The world’s flowin’ on me, an’ I want for nothin’; I have good health, a clear conscience, and everything that a man in my condition of life can stand in need of, or wish for; glory be to God for it all!”

“Amen,” said Frank; “glory be to his name for it!”

“But, Frank,” said Art, “there’s one thing that I often wonder at, an’ indeed so does every one a’most.”

“What is that, Art?”

“Why, that you don’t think o’ marryin’.  Sure you have good means to keep a wife, and rear a family now; an’ of coorse we all wonder that you don’t.”

“Indeed, to tell you the truth, Art, I don’t know myself what’s the raison of it—­the only wife I think of is my business; but any way, if you was to see the patthern of married life there is undher the roof wid me, you’d not be much in consate wid marriage yourself, if you war a bachelor.”

“Why,” inquired the other, “don’t they agree?”