rights be his."

"That's it, dear Martin; it wouldn't bless you if you had it; it can
bless no one who looks to it alone for a blessing. It wouldn't make you
happy--it would make you miserable, av people said you had that which
you ought not to have. Besides, I love my poor brother; he is my
brother, my only real relation; we've lived all our lives together;
and though he isn't what he should be, the fault is not all his own, I
should not sleep in my grave, av I died with his curse upon me; as I
should, av he found, when I am gone, that I'd willed the property all
away. I've told him he'd have it all--nearly all; and I've begged him,
prayed to him, from my dying bed, to mend his ways; to try and be
something betther in the world than what I fear he's like to be. I
think he minded what I said when he was here, for death-bed words have
a solemn sound to the most worldly; but when I'm gone he'll be all
alone, there'll be no one to look afther him. Nobody loves him--no one
even likes him; no one will live with him but those who mane to rob
him; and he will be robbed, and plundered, and desaved, when he thinks
he's robbing and desaving others." Anty paused, more for breath than
for a reply, but Martin felt that he must say something.

"Indeed, Anty, I fear he'll hardly come to good. He dhrinks too much,
by all accounts; besides, he's idle, and the honest feeling isn't in
him."

"It's thrue, dear Martin; it's too thrue. Will you do me a great great
favour, Martin"--and she rose up a little and turned her moist clear
eye full upon him--"will you show your thrue love to your poor Anty,
by a rale lasting kindness, but one that'll be giving you much much
throuble and pain? Afther I'm dead and gone--long long after I'm in my