her O'Rafferty won't give me the
'rites'!"

A general chorus of muttered "Oh! musha, musha," was now heard through the
room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the
unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.

"I die in peace with all my neighbors and all mankind!"

Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable
expressions.

"I bequeath unto my son, Peter--and never was there a better son, or a
decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the
whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboora, with the
fallow meadows, behind Lynch's house, the forge, and the right of turf on
the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lantry Cassarn's
acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln; and that reminds me that my
mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug."

Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably
refreshed by it.

"Where was I, Billy Scanlan?" says he; "oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I
leave him--that's Peter, I mean, the two potato gardens at Noonan's Well;
and it is the elegant fine crops grows there."

"Ain't you gettin' wake, father darlin'?" says Peter, who began to be
afraid of my father's loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got
into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.

"I am, Peter, my son," says he; "I am getting wake; just touch my lips
agin with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!"

"No, indeed, father; but it's the taste is lavin' you," says Peter; and
again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.

"Well, I'm nearly done now," says my father: "there's only one little plot
of ground remaining; and I put it on you, Peter--as ye wish to live a good
man, and die with the same easy heart I do now--that ye mind my last words
to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbors listening? Is Billy
Scanlan listening?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, father. We're all minding," chorused the audience.

"Well, then, it's my last will and testament, and may--give me over the
jug"--here he took a long drink--"and may that blessed liquor be poison to
me if I'm not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say,
then, I bequeath the little plot at the crossroads to poor Con Cregan; for
he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hardworking a man as ever I
knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have