"Man, it is terrible!" said McFarquhar to me as the minister disappeared down the slope; but he never thought of rejecting the burden of responsibility laid upon him. That he had helped Ould Michael down he would hardly acknowledge, but the minister's message bore in upon him heavily. "Where is Abel, thy brother?" he kept saying to himself. Then he took up the bottle and, holding it up to the light, he said with great deliberation:
"There will be no more of you whatever!"
From that time forth McFarquhar labored with Ould Michael with a patience and a tact that amazed me. He did not try to instill theology into the old man's mind, but he read to him constantly the gospel stories and followed his reading with prayer—always in Gaelic, however, for with this Ould Michael found no fault as to him it was no new thing to hear prayers in a foreign tongue. But one day McFarquhar ventured a step in advance.
"Michael," he said timidly, "you will need to be prayin' for yourself."
"Shure an' don't I inthrate the Blessed Virgin to be doin' that same for me?"
McFarquhar had learned to be very patient with his "Romish errors," so he only replied:
"Ay, but you must take words upon your own lips," he said, earnestly.
"An' how can I, then, for niver a word do I know?"