it could be called life, for two years and a half after this melancholy accident, but without the spring or energy necessary to maintain his position, or conduct his business, which declined as rapidly as he did himself.  He and his family were once more reduced to absolute beggary, until in the course of events they found a poorhouse to receive them.  Art was seldom without a reason to justify his conduct, and it mattered not how feeble that reason might be, he always deemed it sufficiently strong to satisfy himself.  For instance, he had often told his wife that if Atty had recovered, sound in body and mind, he had determined never again to taste liquor; “but,” said he, “when I seen my darlin’s mind gone, I couldn’t stand it widout the drop of drink to keep my heart an’ spirits up.”  He died of consumption in the workhouse of Ballykeerin, and there could not be a stronger proof of the fallacy with which he reasoned than the gratifying fact, that he had not been more than two months dead, when his son recovered his reason, to the inexpressible joy of his mother; so that had he followed up his own sense of what was right, he would have lived to see his most sanguine wishes, with regard to his son, accomplished, and perhaps have still been able to enjoy a comparatively long and happy life.

On the morning of the day on which he died, although not suffering much from pain, he seemed to feel an impression that his end was at hand.  It is due to him to say here, that he had for months before his death been deeply and sincerely penitent, and that he was not only sensible of the vanity and errors which had occasioned his fall from integrity, and cut him off in the prime of life, but also felt his heart sustained by the divine consolations of religion.  Father Costello was earnest and unremitting in his spiritual attentions to him, and certainly had the gratification of knowing that he felt death to be in his case not merely a release from all his cares and sorrows, but a passport into that life where the weary are at rest.

About twelve o’clock in the forenoon he asked to see his wife—­his own Margaret—­and his children, but, above all, his blessed Atty—­for such was the epithet he had ever annexed to his name since the night of the melancholy accident.  In a few minutes the sorrowful group appeared, his mother leading the unconscious boy by the hand, for he knew not where he was.  Art lay, or rather reclined, on the bed, supported by two bolsters; his visage was pale, but the general expression of his face was calm, mild, and sorrowful; although his words were distinct, his voice was low and feeble, and every now and then impeded by a short catch—­for to cough he was literally unable.

“Margaret,” said he, “come to me, come to me now,” and he feebly received her hand in his; “I feel that afther all the warfare of this poor life, afther all our love and our sorrow, I am goin’ to part wid you and our childhre at last.”