These disputes between them were well known in the neighborhood. Few of the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old man's weak, reedy voice, and Peter's deep, hoarse one, in altercation. When at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the house,--not a word, not a footstep, could be heard, no more than if it were uninhabited,--the neighbors looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if the old man was worse--if he was dead! It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the fire; but I did n't speak, for I was frightened. It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry, "Con Cregan! Con, I say, open the door! I want you." I knew the voice well; it was Peter M'Cabe's; but I pretended to be fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I heard him say, "Oh, Mr. Peter, what's the matter? Is the ould man worse?" "Faix that's what he is, for he 's dead!" "Glory be his bed! when did it happen?" "About an hour ago," said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner could perceive was greatly agitated. "He died like an ould haythen, Con, and never made a will!" "That's bad," says my father; for he was always a polite man, and said whatever was pleasing to the company. "It is bad," said Peter; "but it would be worse if we could n't help it. Listen to me now, Corny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here's five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were mistaken for each other every day of the week." "Anan!" said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion, without well knowing why. "Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house, and get into the bed." "Not beside the corpse?" said my father, trembling. "By no means, but by yourself; and you 're to pretend to be my father, and that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I 'll send for the neighbors, and Billy Scanlan the schoolmaster, and ye 'll tell him what to write, laving all the farm and everything to me,--ye understand. And as the neighbors will see ye, and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but that it was himself that did it." "The room must be very dark," says my father. "To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the bed; and ye 'll only have to make a cross with yer pen under the name." "And the priest?" said my father. "My father quarrelled with him last week about the Easter dues, and Father Tom said he 'd not give him the 'rites,' and that's lucky now! Come along now, quick, for we 've no time to lose; it must be all finished before the day breaks."