“Don’t, father, dear!—don’t,” he piteously cried, grasping through the bars at the feeble arms of his father as they were about to be upraised; “don’t say the black words, for sure I’ve an oath on me sowl, and I can’t break it!” “Well, well, poor lad!” and the father struggled no more. “May the Almighty give ye strinth to throw id off;” and so they parted, and the misguided victim went unflinchingly to his trial. There was not the smallest tittle of evidence to connect Micky with the crime, and after a short detention he was liberated. Pat was tried shortly after at the High Court, and sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment. “Oh, Patrick dear! it’s somebody else should be in your shoes this day,” came like a “keen” from among the audience as he was led out; and the cry seemed to unman him a little, for it came from his sister. Some time after, when the circumstances had faded a little in my memory, I was over in the jail seeing a prisoner who worked near Pat. I noticed the porter’s son, whose head was now closely cropped, and his appearance considerably changed by the prison dress, and, half recognising him, I said dubiously— “Well, what are you in for?” “It’s yourself should know that, sur,” he said, with a sad smile. “I’m Patrick Stephens. Could I have a word with you, sur?” “Yes, if you look sharp about it,” was my answer, for my time had nearly expired. I expected that he had thought better of the case which had landed him there, and was ready to denounce Micky, but in that I was mistaken. He had not a word to say on that point; his sole concern was for his father and sister. “When Micky was in on suspicion he found out that it wasn’ me, but my father or my sister, that betrayed the hiding-place,” he said to me in a hurried whisper. “He’s sorry now that I was took, but he’s mad agin them, and has sworn to be even with them. You’ve no idea what a divil he is when he takes it into his head. Now, sur, if you’d only take the hint and watch him and them, for though they are as honest as the babe unborn, he’ll get them into a scrape as sure as he’s sworn it.” “Ah, it’s easy getting into scrapes,” I significantly rejoined, glancing at his oakum heap and his prison garb; “the difficulty is to get out of them.” “Sure, I know what ye mane, sur,” he returned, with a slight flush of shame, “but since I’ve been in here I’ve got a mighty load off me sowl, and, if I’m spared to get out, please the Lord, I’ll never take it on again.” I thought of a certain road being paved with good intentions, but said nothing. There was one chance in a thousand that Pat’s might hold good. Even if the thought only comforted him in his seclusion, a blessing was gained.