wn an the floor. Well, the slieveen ould chap--an'
my father thought it was the dirtiest turn iv all--before he beginned
to do anything out iv the way, he stopped for a while to listen wor they
both asleep; an' as soon as he thought all was quite, he put out his
hand and tuk hould iv the whisky bottle, an dhrank at laste a pint iv
it. Well, your honour, when he tuk his turn out iv it, he settled it
back mighty cute entirely, in the very same spot it was in before. An'
he beginned to walk up an' down the room, lookin' as sober an' as solid
as if he never done the likes at all. An' whinever he went apast my
father, he thought he felt a great scent of brimstone, an' it was that
that freckened him entirely; for he knew it was brimstone that was
burned in hell, savin' your presence. At any rate, he often heerd it
from Father Murphy, an' he had a right to know what belonged to it--he's
dead since, God rest him. Well, your honour, my father was asy enough
until the sperit kem past him; so close, God be marciful to us all, that
the smell iv the sulphur tuk the breath clane out iv him; an' with that
he tuk such a fit iv coughin', that it al-a-most shuk him out iv the
chair he was sittin' in.

'"Ho, ho!" says the squire, stoppin' short about two steps aff, and
turnin' round facin' my father, "is it you that's in it?--an' how's all
with you, Terry Neil?"

'"At your honour's sarvice," says my father (as well as the fright id
let him, for he was more dead than alive), "an' it's proud I am to see
your honour to-night," says he.

'"Terence," says the squire, "you're a respectable man" (an' it was
thrue for him), "an industhrious, sober man, an' an example of inebriety
to the whole parish," says he.

'"Thank your honour," says my father, gettin' courage, "you were always
a civil spoken gintleman, God rest your honour."

'"REST my honour?" says the sperit (fairly gettin' red in the face with
the madness), "Rest my honour?" says he. "Why, you ignorant spalpeen,"
says he, "you mane, niggarly ignoramush," says he, "where did you lave
your manners?" says he. "If I AM dead, it's no fault iv mine," says he;
"an' it's not to be thrun in my teeth at every hand's turn, by the likes
iv you," says he, stampin' his foot an the flure, that you'd think the
boords id smash undther him.

'"Oh," says my father, "I'm only a foolish, ignorant poor man," says he.

'"You're nothing else," says the squire: "but any way," says he, "it's
not to be list