d Michael," adding in answer to my look of inquiry, "His
sister has charge of his little girl at home."

Ould Michael steed in silence beside his friend for some moments.

"All well, Michael?" asked McFarquhar.

"They are, that," answered the old soldier, with a happy sigh. "Och,
'tis the lovely land it is, and it's ha-ard to kape away from it."

"I am thinking you are better away from it than in it," said McFarquhar,
dryly.

"Indade, an' it's thrue for you," answered Ould Michael, "but the longer
y're from it the more ye love it, an' it's God bless Ould Oireland siz
I," and he bore us off to celebrate.

It was useless for me to protest. His duty for the month was over; he
was a free man. He had had his good news; and why should he not
celebrate? Besides, he had money in his pocket, and "what would the byes
think av me if I neglected to set 'em up?" And set 'em up he did for
"the byes" and for himself, till I heard McFarquhar taking him to his
cabin to put him to bed long after I had turned in. All through the
following Sunday Ould Michael continued his celebration, with the
hearty and uproarious assistance of the rest of the men and most of them
remained over night for Ould Michael's Sunday spree, which they were
sure would follow.

How completely Paddy Dougan's whisky, most of which he made on his back
premises, changed Ould Michael and the whole company! From being solemn,
silent, alert and generally good-natured, they became wildly vociferous,
reckless, boastful and quarrelsome. That Sunday, as always happens in
the Mountains, where there are plenty of whisky and a crowd of men, was
utterly horrible. The men went wild in all sorts of hideous horseplay,
brawls and general debauchery, and among them Ould Michael reigned a
king.

"It is bad whisky," McFarquhar exclaimed. McFarquhar himself was never
known to get drunk, for he knew his limit on good whisky, and he avoided
bad. Paddy Dougan knew better than to give him any of his own home-made
brew, for if, after his fourth, McFarquhar found himself growing
incapable, knowing that he could enjoy his sixth and even carry with
comfort his ninth, then his rage blazed forth, and the only safety for
Paddy lay in escape to the woods. It was not so much that he despised
the weakness of getting drunk, but he resented the fraud that deprived
him of the pleasure of leisurely pursuing his way to his proper limit.

"It is the _bad_ whisky," repeated McFarquhar "and Ould Mi