“If I have as much money as would buy me a coffin,” said the Boccough, “may my soul never rest quiet in the grave.” Terry crossed his brow with terror. He knew the unhappy wretch was dying with a lie on his tongue, but he resolved not to press the matter further. “You are dying as fast as you can,” remarked Terry; “have you any thing to say before you go?” “Nothing,” replied he faintly. “But let me be buried with my red nightcap on me.” “Your wish must be granted,” said Terry, and he went to awake his old mother, who still lay asleep. When he returned, he found the old man breathing his last. He uttered a convulsive groan, and expired. He was washed and stretched, and waked, with all the honours, rites, and ceremonies belonging to a genuine Irish wake; and on the third day following, being the Sabbath, he was followed to the grave by crowds of the village peasantry, who remained in the churchyard until they saw his remains deposited, as they thought for ever, in the rank soil of the “City of the Dead.” Many rumours were now current respecting the Boccough’s money. Every one but Terry believed that the “lob” fell with Terry himself. But Terry, who knew better, believed and affirmed that “what was got under the devil’s belly, always goes over his back,” and that the “old boy” had taken the spoil, and that it lay concealed in some crevice in the bank of the river. The night following the burial of the old sailor was passed in a very disturbed and agitated manner by Terry O’Shea: he could not sleep a wink; and when he fell into a slumber, he started and moaned, and appeared frightened and annoyed. “What ails you?” affectionately demanded his old mother, who slept in the same room, and who was kept awake by her son’s restless and disturbed manner. “I don’t know, mother,” said Terry; “I am so frightened and tormented with dreaming of the Boccough Ruadh, that I am almost out of my natural senses. Even at this moment I think I see him walking the room before me.” “Holy Mary, protect us!” ejaculated the old woman. “And it is no wonder that his misforthunate soul would be star-gazing about--and to die without the priest, and a curse and a lie in his mouth!” Terry groaned agitatedly. “And how does he appear in your dreams?” asked the old woman. “As he always was,” replied Terry. “But I think I see him pointing to his red nightcap, and endeavouring to pull it off with his old withered hand.” “Umph!” said the old woman, in a knowing tone. “Ha! ha! I have it now. Are you sure that the strings of his nightcap were unloosed before he was nailed up in the coffin?” “I don’t know,” was the reply. “I’ll go bail they weren’t,” said the old woman; “and you know, or at any rate you ought to know, that a corpse can never rest in the grave when there is a knot or a tie upon any thing belonging to its grave-dress.” Terry emitted another deep groan.