"'Upon my conscience,' says I, 'I believe you're right; he was always a restless crayture.'
"'But it doesn't depind on him,' says the priest, crossly.
"'Upon yourself, Mickey Free,' says he, 'God pardon you for it, too!'
"'Troth, no less,' says he; 'how many Masses was said for your father's soul; how many Aves; how many Paters? Answer me.'
"'Devil a one of me knows!--may be twenty.'
"'And why not?' says I; 'what for wouldn't you be helping a poor crayture out of trouble, when it wouldn't cost you more nor a handful of prayers?'
"'Mickey, I see,' says he, in a solemn tone, 'you're worse nor a haythen; but ye couldn't be other, ye never come to yer duties.'
"'Well, Father,' says I, Looking very penitent, 'how many Masses would get him out?'
"'Now you talk like a sensible man,' says he. 'Now, Mickey, I've hopes for you. Let me see,' here he went countin' upon his fingers, and numberin' to himself for five minutes. 'Mickey,' says he, 'I've a batch coming out on Tuesday week, and if you were to make great exertions, perhaps your father could come with them; that is, av they have made no objections.'
"'And what for would they?' says I; 'he was always the hoith of company, and av singing's allowed in them parts--'
"'God forgive you, Mickey, but yer in a benighted state,' says he, sighing.
"'Well,' says I, 'how'll we get him out on Tuesday week? For that's bringing things to a focus.'
"'Two Masses in the morning, fastin',' says Father Roach, half aloud, 'is two, and two in the afternoon is four, and two at vespers is six,' says he; 'six Masses a day for nine days is close by sixty Masses,--say sixty,' says he; 'and they'll cost you--mind, Mickey, and don't be telling it again, for it's only to yourself I'd make them so cheap--a matter of three pounds.'
"'Three pounds!' says I; 'be-gorra ye might as well ax me to give you the rock of Cashel.'
"'I'm sorry for ye, Mickey,' says he, gatherin' up the reins to ride off,--'I'm sorry for ye; and the time will come when the neglect of your poor father will be a sore stroke agin yourself.'
"'Wait a bit, your reverence,' says I,--'wait a bit. Would forty shillings get him out?'
"'May be,' says I, coaxing,--'may be, av you said that his son was a poor boy that lived by his indhustry, and the times was bad--'