n accident: sure we often hard of sich things.
Don't you remimber Squire Elliott's son, that shot himself by accident,
out fowlin'? Frank, can you clear yourself before us?"

"Ah, Alley! Alley!" exclaimed the father, wiping away his tears, "don't
you remimber his oath, last night?"

"What oath?" inquired the son, with an air of surprise--"What oath, last
night? I know I was drunk last night, but I remimber nothing about an
oath."

"Do you deny it, you hardened boy?"

"I do deny it; an' I'm not a hardened boy. What do you all mane? do
you want to dhrive me mad? I know nothin' about any oath last night;"
replied the son in a loud voice. The grief of the mother and daughters
was loud during the pauses of the conversation. Micaul, the eldest son,
sat beside his father in tears.

"Frank," said he, "many an advice I gave you between ourselves, and you
know how you tuck them. When you'd stale the oats, an' the meal, and the
phaties, an' hay, at night, to have money for your cards an' dhrinkin',
I kept it back, an' said nothin' about it. I wish I hadn't done so, for
it wasn't for your good: but it was my desire to have, as much pace and
quietness as possible."

"Frank," said the father, eyeing him solemnly, "it's possible that you
do forget the oath you made last night, for you war in liquor: I would
give the wide world that it was thrue. Can you now, in the presence
of God, clear yourself of havin' act or part in the death of Mike
Reillaghan?"

"What 'ud ail me," said the son, "if I liked?"

"Will you do it now for our satisfaction, an' take a load of misery
off of our hearts? It's the laste you may do, if you can do it. In the
presence of the great God, will you clear yourself now?"

"I suppose," said the son, "I'll have to clear myself to-morrow, an'
there's no use in my doin' it more that wanst. When the time comes, I'll
do it."

The father put his hands on his eyes, and groaned aloud: so deep was
his affliction, that the tears trickled through his fingers during this
fresh burst of sorrow. The son's refusal to satisfy them renewed the
grief of all, as well as of the father: it rose again, louder than
before, whilst young Frank sat opposite the door, silent and sullen.

It was now dark, but the night was calm and agreeable. M'Kenna's family
felt the keen affliction which we have endeavored to describe; the
dinner was put hastily aside, and the festive spirit peculiar to this
night became changed into one of gl