mountains, of coorse, where every Still is kept.  Sure enough, Larry sould him the oats, and was to bring them up to the still-house the next night after dark.  According to appointment, Art came a short time after night-fall, with two or three young boys along with him.  The corn was sacked and put on the horses; but before that was done, they had a dhrop, for Art’s pocket and the bottle were ould acquaintances.  They all then sat down in Larry’s, or, at laste, as many as there were seats for, and fell to it.  Larry, however, seemed to be in better humor this night, and more affectionate with Sally and the childher:  he’d often look at them, and appear to feel as if something was over him* but no one observed that till afterwards.  Sally herself seemed kinder to him, and even went over and sat beside him on the stool, and putting her arm about his neck, kissed him in a joking way, wishing to make up, too, for what Art saw the night before—­poor thing—­but still as if it wasn’t all a joke, for at times she looked sorrowful.  Larry, too, got his arm about her, and looked, often and often on her and the childher, in a way that he wasn’t used to do, until the tears fairly came into his eyes.

     * This is precisely tantamount to what the Scotch call
     “fey.”  It means that he felt as if some fatal doom were over
     him.

“‘Sally, avourneen,’ says he, looking at her, ’I saw you when you had another look from what you have this night; when it wasn’t asy to fellow you in the parish or out of it;’ and when he said this he could hardly spake.

“‘Whist, Larry, acushla,’ says she, ’don’t be spaking that way—­sure we may do very well yet, plase God:  I know, Larry, there was a great dale of it—­maybe, indeed, it was all my fault; for I wasn’t to you, in the way of care and kindness, what I ought to be.’

“’Well, well, aroon, says Larry, ’say no more; you might have been all that, only it was my fault:  but where’s Dick, that I struck so terribly last night?  Dick, come over to me, agra—­come over, Dick, and sit down here beside me.  Arrah, here, Art, ma bouchal, will you fill this egg-shell for him?—­Poor gorsoon!  God knows, Dick, you get far from fair play, acushla—­far from the ating and drinking that other people’s childher get, that hasn’t as good a skin to put it in as you, alannah!  Kiss me, Dick, acushla—­and God knows your face is pale, and that’s not with good feeding, anyhow:  Dick, agra, I’m sorry for what I done to you last night; forgive your father, Dick, for I think that my heart’s breaking, acushla, and that you won’t have me long with you.’