His unhappy wife, after their conversation that evening, experienced one of those strange, unaccountable presentiments or impressions which every one, more or less, has frequently felt. Until lately, he had not often gone out at night, because it was not until lately that the clique began to reassemble in Barney Scaddhan's. 'Tis true the feeling on her part was involuntary, but on that very account it was the more distressing; her principal apprehension of danger to him was occasioned by his intimacy with Toal Finnigan, who, in spite of all her warnings and admonitions, contrived, by the sweetness of his tongue, to hold his ground with him, and maintain his good opinion. Indeed, any one who could flatter, wheedle, and play upon his vanity successfully, was sure to do this; but nobody could do it with such adroitness as Toal Finnigan. It is wonderful how impressions are caught by the young from those who are older and have more experience than themselves. Little Atty, who had heard the conversation already detailed, begged his mammy not to send him to bed that night until his father would come home, especially as Mat Mulrennan, an in-door apprentice, who had been permitted that evening to go to see his family, had not returned, and he wished, he said, to sit up and let him in. The mother was rather satisfied than otherwise, that the boy should sit up with her, especially as all the other children and the servants had gone to bed. “Mammy,” said the boy, “isn't it a great comfort for us to be as we are now, and to know that my father can never get drunk again?” “It is indeed, Atty;” and yet she said so; with a doubting, if not an apprehensive heart. “He'll never beat you more, mammy, now?” “No, darlin'; nor he never did, barrin' when he didn't know what he was doin'.” “That is when he was drunk, mammy?” “Yes, Atty dear.” “Well, isn't it a great thing that he can never get drunk any more, mammy; and never beat you any more; and isn't it curious too, how he never bate me?” “You, darlin'? oh, no, he would rather cut his arm off than rise it to you, Atty dear; and it's well that you are so good a boy as you are--for I'm afeard, Atty, that even if you deserved to be corrected, he wouldn't do it.” “But what 'ud we all do widout my father, mammy? If anything happened to him I think I'd die. I'd like to die if he was to go.” “Why, darlin'?” “Bekase, you know, he'd go to heaven, and I'd like to be wid him; sure he'd miss me--his own Atty--wherever he'd be.” “And so you'd lave me and your sisters, Atty, and go to heaven with your father!” The boy seemed perplexed; he looked affectionately at his mother, and said-- “No, mammy, I wouldn't wish to lave you, for then you'd have no son at all; no, I wouldn't lave you--I don't know what I'd do--I'd like to stay wid you, and I'd like to go wid him, I'd--” “Well, darlin', you won't be put to that trial this many a long day, I hope.”