is poor. I've sometimes
thought, as I've been lying here the long long hours awake, that,
feeling to you as I do, I ought to be laving you what the ould man left
to me."

"I'd be sorry you did, Anty. I'll not be saying but what I thought of
that when I first looked for you, but it was never to take it from you,
but to share it with you, and make you happy with it."

"I know it, Martin: I always knew it and felt it."

"And now, av it's God's will that you should go from us, I'd rather
Barry had the money than us. We've enough, the Lord be praised; and I
wouldn't for worlds it should be said that it war for that we brought
you among us; nor for all County Galway would I lave it to Barry to
say, that when you were here, sick, and wake, and dying, we put a pen
into your hand to make you sign a will to rob him of what should by
rights be his."

"That's it, dear Martin; it wouldn't bless you if you had it; it can
bless no one who looks to it alone for a blessing. It wouldn't make you
happy--it would make you miserable, av people said you had that which
you ought not to have. Besides, I love my poor brother; he is my
brother, my only real relation; we've lived all our lives together;
and though he isn't what he should be, the fault is not all his own, I
should not sleep in my grave, av I died with his curse upon me; as I
should, av he found, when I am gone, that I'd willed the property all
away. I've told him he'd have it all--nearly all; and I've begged him,
prayed to him, from my dying bed, to mend his ways; to try and be
something betther in the world than what I fear he's like to be. I
think he minded what I said when he was here, for death-bed words have
a solemn sound to the most worldly; but when I'm gone he'll be all
alone, there'll be no one to look afther him. Nobody loves him--no one
even likes him; no one will live with him but those who mane to rob
him; and he will be robbed, and plundered, and desaved, when he thinks
he's robbing and desaving others." Anty paused, more for breath than
for a reply, but Martin felt that he must say something.

"Indeed, Anty, I fear he'll hardly come to good. He dhrinks too much,
by all accounts; besides, he's idle, and the honest feeling isn't in
him."

"It's thrue, dear Martin; it's too thrue. Will you do me a great great
favour, Martin"--and she rose up a little and turned her moist clear
eye full upon him--"will you show your thrue love to your poor Anty,
by a rale last