“I never can,” she replied, “without a troubled and a sinkin’ heart; but, Art, don’t you remember when I wanst wished you to become a Teetotaller, the answer you made me?”

“May be I do; what was it?”

“Why, you axed me—­and you were makin’ game of it at the time—­whether Teetotallism would put a shirt or a coat to your back—­a house over your head—­give you a bed to lie on, or blankets to keep you and the childre from shiverin’, an’ coughin’, an’ barkin’ in the could of the night?  Don’t you remember sayin’ this?”

“I think I do; ay, I remember something about it now.  Didn’t I say that whiskey was my coach an’ my carriage, an’ that it made me a lord?”

“You did; well, now what do you say?  Hasn’t Teetotallism bate you in your own argument?  Hasn’t it given you a shirt an’ a coat to your back, a good bed to lie on, a house over your head?  In short, now, Art, hasn’t it given you all you said, an’ more than ever you expected? eh, now?”

“I give in, Margaret—­you have me there; but,” he proceeded, “it’s not every man could pull himself up as I did; eh?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Art, don’t begin to put any trust in your own mere strength, nor don’t be boasting of what you did, the way you do; sure, we ought always to be very humble and thankful to God for what he has done for us; is there anything comes to us only through him?”

“I’m takin’ no pride to myself,” said Art, “divil a taste; but this I know, talk as you will, there’s always somethin’ in the ould blood.”

“Now, Art,” she replied, smiling, “do you know I could answer you on that subject if I liked?”

“You could,” said Art; “come, then, let us hear your answer—­come now—­ha, ha, ha!”

She became grave, but complacent, as she spoke.  “Well, then, Art,” said she, “where was the ould blood when you fell so low?  If it was the ould blood that riz you up, remember it was the ould blood that put you down.  You drank more whiskey,” she added, “upon the head of the ould blood of Ireland, and the great Fermanagh Maguires, than you did on all other subjects put together.  No, Art dear, let us not trust to ould blood or young blood, but let us trust to the grace o’ God, an’ ax it from our hearts out.”

“Well, but arn’t we in great comfort now?”

“We are,” she replied, “thank the Giver of all good for it; may God continue it to us, and grant it to last!”

“Last! why wouldn’t it last, woman alive?  Well, begad, after all, ’tis not every other man, any way—­”

“Whisht, now,” said Margaret, interrupting him, “you’re beginnin’ to praise yourself.”

“Well, I won’t then; I’m going down the town to have a glass or two o’ cordial wid young Tom Whiskey, in Barney Scaddhan’s.”

“Art,” she replied, somewhat solemnly, “the very name of Barney Scaddhan sickens me.  I know we ought to forgive every one, as we hope to be forgiven ourselves; but still, Art, if I was in your shoes, the sorra foot ever I’d put inside his door.  Think of the way he trated you; ah, Art acushla, where’s the pride of the ould blood now?”