ok hold of
the bridle.

"'Father, darling,' says I, 'God pardon me, but them breeches is goin'
between me an' my night's rest; but tell me about my father?'

"'Oh, then, he's in a melancholy state!'

"'Whereabouts is he?' says I.

"'In purgathory,' says he; 'but he won't be there long.'

"'Well,' says I, 'that's a comfort, anyhow.'

"'I am glad you think so,' says he; 'but there's more of the other
opinion.'

"'What's _that?_' says I.

"'That hell's worse.'

"'Oh, melia-murther!' says I, 'is that it?'

"'Ay, that's it.'

"Well, I was so terrified and frightened, I said nothing for some time, but
trotted along beside the priest's horse.

"'Father,' says I, 'how long will it be before they send him where you
know?'

"'It will not be long now,' says he, 'for they're tired entirely with him;
they've no peace night or day,' says he. 'Mickey, your father is a mighty
hard man.'

"'True for you, Father Roach,' says I to myself; 'av he had only the ould
stick with the scythe in it, I wish them joy of his company.'

"'Mickey,' says he, 'I see you're grieved, and I don't wonder; sure, it's a
great disgrace to a decent family.'

"'Troth, it is,' says I; 'but my father always liked low company. Could
nothing be done for him now, Father Roach?' says I, looking up in the
priest's face.

"'I'm greatly afraid, Mickey, he was a bad man, a very bad man.'

"'And ye think he'll go there?' says I.

"'Indeed, Mickey, I have my fears.'

"'Upon my conscience,' says I, 'I believe you're right; he was always a
restless crayture.'

"'But it doesn't depind on him,' says the priest, crossly.

"'And, then, who then?' says I.

"'Upon yourself, Mickey Free,' says he, 'God pardon you for it, too!'

"'Upon me?' says I.

"'Troth, no less,' says he; 'how many Masses was said for your father's
soul; how many Aves; how many Paters? Answer me.'

"'Devil a one of me knows!--may be twenty.'

"'Twenty, twenty!--no, nor one.'

"'And why not?' says I; 'what for wouldn't you be helping a poor crayture
out of trouble, when it wouldn't cost you more nor a handful of prayers?'

"'Mickey, I see,' says he, in a solemn tone, 'you're worse nor a haythen;
but ye couldn't be other, ye never come to yer duties.'

"'Well, Father,' says I, Looking very penitent, 'how many Masses would get
him out?'

"'Now you talk like a sensible man,' says he. 'Now, Mickey, I've hopes for
you. Let me see,' here he went countin' upon his fingers, and n