, crowded on him. A drunken
man always feels more anxiety about what he has not done in his
drunkenness, than about what he has; and so it was with Barry. He
remembered having used rough language with his sister, but he could not
remember how far he had gone. He remembered striking her, and he knew
that the servant had come in; but he could not remember how, or with
what he had struck her, or whether he had done so more than once, or
whether she had been much hurt. He could not even think whether he had
seen her since or not; he remembered being in the garden after she had
fallen, and drinking again after that, but nothing further. Surely, he
could not have killed her? he could not even have hurt her very much,
or he would have heard of it before this. If anything serious had
happened, the servants would have taken care that he should have heard
enough about it ere now. Then he began to think what o'clock it could
be, and that it must be late, for his watch was run down; the general
fate of drunkards, who are doomed to utter ignorance of the hour at
which they wake to the consciousness of their miserable disgrace. He
feared to ring the bell for the servant; he was afraid to ask the
particulars of last night's work; so he turned on his pillow, and tried
to sleep again. But in vain. If he closed his eyes, Anty was before
them, and he was dreaming, half awake, that he was trying to stifle
her, and that she was escaping, to tell all the world of his brutality
and cruelty. This happened over and over again; for when he dozed but
for a minute, the same thing re-occurred, as vividly as before, and
made even his waking consciousness preferable to the visions of his
disturbed slumbers. So, at last, he roused himself, and endeavoured to
think what he should do.

Whilst he was sitting up in his bed, and reflecting that he must
undress himself before he could dress himself--for he had tumbled into
bed with most of his clothes on--Terry's red head appeared at the door,
showing an anxiety, on the part of its owner, to see if "the masther"
was awake, but to take no step to bring about such a state, if,
luckily, he still slept.

"What's the time, Terry?" said Lynch, frightened, by his own state,
into rather more courtesy than he usually displayed to those dependent
on him.

"Well then, I b'lieve it's past one, yer honer."

"The d----l it is! I've such a headache. I was screwed last night; eh,
Terry?"

"I b'lieve yer war, yer hon