her advice, neglected her comfort, and forgotten the duties which both God and nature had imposed upon him, with respect to her and their children.  These feelings coming upon him during short intervals of reflection, almost drove him mad, and he has often come home to her and them in a frightful and terrible consciousness that he had committed some great crime, and that she and their children were involved in its consequences.

“Margaret,” he would say, “Margaret, what is it I’ve done aginst you and the childre?  I have done some great crime aginst you all, for surely if I didn’t, you wouldn’t look as you do—­Margaret, asthore, where is the color that was in your cheeks? and my own Art here—­that always pacifies me when nobody else can—­even Art doesn’t look what he used to be.”

“Well, sure he will, Art, dear,” she would reply; “now will you let me help you to bed? it’s late; it’s near three o’clock; Oh Art, dear, if you were——­”

“I won’t go to bed—­I’ll stop here where I am, wid my head on the table, till mornin’.  Now do you know—­come here, Margaret—­let me hear you—­do you know, and are you sensible of the man you’re married to?”

“To be sure I am.”

“No, I tell you; I say you are not.  There is but one person in the house that knows that.”

“You’re right, Art darlin’—­you’re right.  Come here, Atty; go to your father; you know what to say, avick.”

“Well, Art,” he would continue, “do you know who your father is?”

“Ay do I; he’s one of the great Fermanagh Maguires—­the greatest family in the kingdom.  Isn’t that it?”

“That’s it, Atty darlin’—­come an’ kiss me for that; yes, I’m one of the great Fermanagh Maguires.  Isn’t that a glorious thin’, Atty?”

“Now, Art, darlin’, will you let me help you to bed—­think of the hour it is.”

“I won’t go, I tell you.  I’ll sit here wid my head on the table all night.  Come here, Atty.  Atty, it’s wondherful how I love you—­above all creatures livin’ do I love you.  Sure I never refuse to do any thing for you, Atty; do I now?”

“Well, then, will you come to bed for me?”

“To be sure I will, at wanst;” and the unhappy man instantly rose and staggered into his bedroom, aided and supported by his wife and child; for the latter lent whatever little assistance he could give to his drunken father, whom he tenderly loved.

His shop, however, is now closed, the apprentices are gone, and the last miserable source of their support no longer exists.  Poverty now sets in, and want and destitution.  He parts with his tools; but not for the purpose of meeting the demands of his wife and children at home; no; but for drink—­drink—­drink—­drink.  He is now in such a state that he cannot, dares not, reflect, and consequently, drink is more necessary to him than ever.  His mind, however, is likely soon to be free from the pain of thinking; for it is becoming gradually debauched and brutified—­is sinking, in fact, to the lowest and most pitiable state of degradation.  It was then, indeed, that he felt how the world deals with a man who leaves himself depending on it.