several times, indicating
that a humorous aspect of the case had occurred to him, "what will we
do if he turns 'sour-face,' as they say, on us?"

This euphuism, which had been adopted by some of the more extreme of
the Nationalist party to indicate members of the opposing communion,
was received by Dr. Mangan as an apt and entertaining quotation on the
part of his clergyman.

"No fear, no fear!" he said, laughing jovially, "but if you'll allow
me to say so, I think a good deal depends on this business going
through."

The Spirit of the Nation smiled also; it was evident to her that these
ministers of hers were conscientiously intent on doing her pleasure,
and, leaving them with confidence, she spread her wide wings and
followed the broad stream of the river down the valley in the
direction of Mount Music.

Dr. Mangan drove home as swiftly and capably as was his wont. It had
been fair-day in Cluhir, and the people from the country were slowly
and reluctantly forsaking the enjoyments of the town. Large women
piled voluminously on small carts, each with a conducting little boy
and a labouring little donkey somewhere beneath her; men in decent
blue cloth garments, whose innate respectability must have suffered
acutely from the erratic conduct of the limbs inside them; wandering
knots of cattle, remotely attended by the wearers of blue cloth
aforesaid; horses carting themselves and their owners home, with
entire self-control and good sense; and, anchored in the tide of
traffic, the ubiquitous beggar-women, their filthy hands proffering
matches, green apples, bootlaces, their strident tongues mastering the
noises of the street, their rapacious, humorous eyes observant of all
things. All these did Dr. Mangan encounter and circumvent, frustrating
their apparent determination to commit suicide by those diverse
methods of abuse, cajolery, and, on the part of the car, mechanical
activity, that formed an important part of the necessary equipment of
an Irish motorist of the earlier time. Nevertheless, the more intimate
portion of his brain was deeply engaged in those labyrinths of minor
provincial intrigue in which so many able intellects spend themselves,
for want of wider opportunity.

Mrs. Mangan was in the kitchen, where, indeed, she was not
infrequently to be found, when the Doctor came in by the back-door
from the yard.

"I want you, Annie," he said, shouldering his enormous bulk along the
narrow passage, and treadin