never backward in paying off the
obligation. At last Mat, tired out in the struggle, resolved he would
bear no more. He took leave of his father one night, and next day set
off for Dublin, and 'listed in the "Buffs." Three weeks after, he sailed
for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by grief, took to his bed, and
never arose from it after.

Not that his death was any way sudden, for he lingered on for months
long,--Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on
"the dirty spalpeen" that disgraced the family, but old Harry as stoutly
resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided
between them.

These disputes between them were well known in the neighborhood. Few of
the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old
man's weak, reedy voice, and Peter's deep, hoarse one, in altercation.
When at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the
house,--not a word, not a footstep, could be heard, no more than if it
were uninhabited,--the neighbors looked knowingly at each other, and
wondered if the old man was worse--if he was dead!

It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our
cabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket
near the fire; but I did n't speak, for I was frightened. It was
repeated still louder, and then came a cry, "Con Cregan! Con, I
say, open the door! I want you." I knew the voice well; it was Peter
M'Cabe's; but I pretended to be fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last
my father unbolted the door, and I heard him say, "Oh, Mr. Peter, what's
the matter? Is the ould man worse?"

"Faix that's what he is, for he 's dead!"

"Glory be his bed! when did it happen?"

"About an hour ago," said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner
could perceive was greatly agitated. "He died like an ould haythen, Con,
and never made a will!"

"That's bad," says my father; for he was always a polite man, and said
whatever was pleasing to the company.

"It is bad," said Peter; "but it would be worse if we could n't help
it. Listen to me now, Corny, I want ye to help me in this business; and
here's five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye
were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye
were mistaken for each other every day of the week."

"Anan!" said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion,
without well knowing why.

"Well, what I