As he spoke and wept, which he did with the bitterest anguish of despair, his grief assumed a character that was fearful from the inward effusion of blood, which caused him from time to time to throw it up in red mouthfuls, and when remonstrated with by the doctor upon the danger of allowing himself to be overcome by such excitement-- “I don't care,” he shouted, “if it's my heart's blood, I would shed it at any time for him; I don't care about life now; what 'ud it be to me without my son? widout you, Atty dear, what is the world or all that's in it to me now! An' when I think of who it was that cut you down--cursed be the hand that gave you that unlucky blow, cursed may it be--cursed be them that tempted me to drink--cursed may the drink be that made me as I was, and cursed of God may I be that--” “Art, Art,” exclaimed Margaret, “any thing but that, remember there's a God above--don't blasphame;--we have enough to suffer widout havin' to answer for that.” He paused at her words, and as soon as the paroxysm was over, he sunk by fits into a gloomy silence, or walked from room to room, wringing his hands and beating his head, in a state of furious distraction, very nearly bordering on insanity. The next morning, we need scarcely assure our readers, that, as the newspapers have it, a great and painful sensation had been produced through the town of Bally-keerin by the circumstances which we have related:-- “Art Maguire had broken the pledge, gone home drunk, and killed his only son by the blow of an iron bar on the, head; the crowner had been sent for, an' plaise God we'll have a full account of it all.” In part of this, however, common fame, as she usually is, was mistaken; the boy was not killed, neither did he then die. On the third day, about eight o'clock in the evening, he opened his eyes, and his mother, who was scarcely ever a moment from his bedside, having observed the fact, approached him with hopes almost as deep as those of heaven itself in her heart, and in a voice soft and affectionate as ever melted into a human ear-- “Atty, treasure of my heart, how do you feel?” The child made no reply, but as his eye had not met hers, and as she had whispered very low, it was likely, she thought, that he had not heard her. “I will bring his father,” said she, “for if he will know or spake to any one, he will, spake to him.” She found Art walking about, as he had done almost ever since the unhappy accident, and running to him with a gush of joyful tears, she threw her arms about his neck, and kissing him, said-- “Blessed be the Almighty, Art--” but she paused, “oh, great God, Art, what is this! merciful heaven, do I smell whiskey on you?” “You do,” he replied, “it's in vain, I can't live--I'd die widout it; it's in vain, Margaret, to spake--if I don't get it to deaden my grief I'll die: but, what wor you goin' to tell me?” he added eagerly. She burst into tears.