“'For heaven's sake, Sally,' says Art, 'don't exaggerate him more nor he is--the boy is only stunned--see, he's coming to: Dick, ma bouchal, rouse yourself, that's a man: hut! he's well enough--that's it, alannah; here, take a slug out of this bottle, and it'll set all right--or stop, have you a glass within, Sally?' 'Och, inusha, not a glass is under the roof wid me,' says Sally; 'the last we had was broke the night Barney was christened, and we hadn't one since--but I'll get you an egg-shell.'* 'It'll do as well as the best,' says Art. And to make a long story short, they sat down, and drank the bottle of whiskey among them. Larry and Sally made it up, and were as great friends as ever; and Dick was made drunk for the bating he got from his father. * The ready wit of the Irish is astonishing. It often happens that they have whiskey when neither glasses nor cups are at hand; in which case they are never at a loss. I have seen them use not only egg-shells, but pistol barrels, tobacco boxes, and scooped potatoes, in extreme cases. “What Art wanted was to buy some oats that Larry had to sell, to run in a private Still, up in the mountains, of coorse, where every Still is kept. Sure enough, Larry sould him the oats, and was to bring them up to the still-house the next night after dark. According to appointment, Art came a short time after night-fall, with two or three young boys along with him. The corn was sacked and put on the horses; but before that was done, they had a dhrop, for Art's pocket and the bottle were ould acquaintances. They all then sat down in Larry's, or, at laste, as many as there were seats for, and fell to it. Larry, however, seemed to be in better humor this night, and more affectionate with Sally and the childher: he'd often look at them, and appear to feel as if something was over him* but no one observed that till afterwards. Sally herself seemed kinder to him, and even went over and sat beside him on the stool, and putting her arm about his neck, kissed him in a joking way, wishing to make up, too, for what Art saw the night before--poor thing--but still as if it wasn't all a joke, for at times she looked sorrowful. Larry, too, got his arm about her, and looked, often and often on her and the childher, in a way that he wasn't used to do, until the tears fairly came into his eyes. * This is precisely tantamount to what the Scotch call “fey.” It means that he felt as if some fatal doom were over him. “'Sally, avourneen,' says he, looking at her, 'I saw you when you had another look from what you have this night; when it wasn't asy to fellow you _in_ the parish or _out_ of it;' and when he said this he could hardly spake. “'Whist, Larry, acushla,' says she, 'don't be spaking that way--sure we may do very well yet, plase God: I know, Larry, there was a great dale of it--maybe, indeed, it was all my fault; for I wasn't to you, in the way of care and kindness, what I ought to be.'