ment of this kind; the low,
deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob,--the tribute of
affectionate sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly
brought back; these, I repeat it, were all so real that, as I looked, a
thrilling sense of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.

A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to
cause even a deeper stillness; and then, in a silence where the buzzing
of a fly would have been heard, my father said, "Where's Billy Scanlan?
I want to make my will!"

"He's here, father!" said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading
him to the bedside.

"Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick; for I hav'n't a long time
afore me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O'Rafferty won't
give me the 'rites '!"

A general chorus of muttered "Oh! musha, musha!" was now heard through
the room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or
the unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.

"I die in peace with all my neighbors and all mankind!"

Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable
expressions.

"I bequeath unto my son Peter,--and never was there a better son, or
a decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son Peter the
whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboora, with the
fallow meadows behind Lynch's house; the forge, and the right of turf on
the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lanty Cassara's
acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln; and that reminds me that
my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug." Here the
dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably refreshed
by it. "Where was I, Billy Scanlan?" says he; "oh, I remember, at the
limekiln; I leave him--that's Peter, I mean--the two potato-gardens at
Noonan's Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there."

"An't you gettin' wake, father, darlin'?" says Peter, who began to be
afraid of my father's loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch
got into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.

"I am, Peter, my son," says he; "I am getting wake; just touch my lips
again with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!"

"No, indeed, father; but it's the taste is leavin' you," says Peter; and
again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.

"Well, I'm nearly done now," says my father; "there's only o