Michael McGrath, Postmaster

forth, and the only safety for Paddy lay in escape to the woods. It was not so much that he despised the weakness of getting drunk, but he resented the fraud that deprived him of the pleasure of leisurely pursuing his way to his proper limit.

"It is the bad whisky," repeated McFarquhar "and Ould Michael ought to know better than fill himself up with such deplorable stuff."

"Too bad!" I said.

"Ay, but I'll jist take him away with me to-morrow and he'll come to in a few days."

I knew enough of the life in these valleys not to be hard with Ould Michael and his friends. The slow monotony of the long, lonely weeks made any break welcome, and the only break open to them was that afforded by Paddy Dougan's best home-made, a single glass of which would drive a man far on to madness. A new book, a fresh face, a social gathering, a Sabbath service--how much one or all of these might do for them!

With difficulty I escaped from Ould Michael's hospitality and, leaving the scene