Years rolled away, and Neale O’Shea having now waxed old, died, and was gathered to his fathers in the adjacent green churchyard of Shannikill,[6] on the banks of the winding Nore. The Boccough followed the remains of his kind benefactor to his last earthly resting-place, and poured his sorrows over his grave in loud and long-continued lamentations. But though Neale was gone, Kathleen remained, and she promised that while she lived, neither son nor daughter should ever turn out the Boccough Ruadh. It was now forty years since the Boccough first crossed the waters of the Nore, and still he was constantly to be found from morning till night on his favourite stone at the river side. In the mean time, all O’Shea’s children were married, and separated through various parts of the country, with the exception of Terry, the youngest, a fine stout fellow, now about thirty-five years of age, who still remained in a state of single blessedness, and said he would continue so, “until he would be after laying the last sod on his poor ould mother.” With gigantic strength, he inherited all his father’s kindness of heart and undaunted bravery, and he was particularly attentive to the Boccough, whom he regarded with the same affection as a child would a parent. One morning in summer, the Boccough was observed to remain in bed longer than was his custom, and thinking that he might be unwell, Terry went to his bedside, and demanded why he was not up as usual. “Ah, Terry, _alanna_,” said the old man sorrowfully, “I will never get up again until I do upon the bearer.[7] My days are spent, and I know it, for there is something over me that I cannot describe, and I won’t be alive in twenty-four hours;” and as he said these words, he heaved a deep groan, whilst Terry, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, wept bitterly. “Will I go for the priest?” demanded Terry, sobbing as if his heart would break. “No,” replied the old man sorrowfully, “I do not want him. It is long since I complied with my religious duties, and now I feel it is useless.” “There is mercy still,” replied Terry; “you know the ould sayin’, ‘Mercy craved and mercy found Between the saddle and the ground.’” The old man replied not, but shook his head, indicating his determination to die without the consolations of religion, whilst Terry trembled for his hopeless situation. “Well, since you won’t have the priest, will you give me some money till I bring you the doctor?” said Terry. The old man’s eyes literally flashed fire, his form heaved with rage, and his countenance displayed demoniac indignation. “What’s that you say?” he demanded in a ferocious tone. Terry repeated the question. “Send for a doctor!--give you money!” echoed the old man. “Where the devil would I get money to pay a doctor?” “You have it, and ten times as much,” said Terry, “and you cannot deny it.”