he was, and such he is, now that he has entered upon the
humble drama of our story.

On arriving at Fardorougha's house, he found that worthy man at dinner,
upon a cold bone of bacon and potatoes. He had only a few moments before
returned from the residence of the County Treasurer, with whom he went
to lodge, among other sums, that which was so iniquitously wrung from
the ruin of the Flanagans. It would be wrong to say that he felt in
any degree embarrassed on looking into the face of one whom he had so
oppressively injured. The recovery of his usurious debts, no matter
how merciless the process, he considered only as an act of justice to
himself, for his conscience having long ago outgrown the perception
of his own inhumanity, now only felt compunction when death or the
occasional insolvency of a security defeated his rapacity.

When Bartle entered, Fardorougha and he surveyed each other with perfect
coolness for nearly half a minute, during which time neither uttered a
word. The silence was first broken by Honora, who put forward a chair,
and asked Flanagan to sit down.

"Sit down, Bartle," said she, "sit down, boy; an' how is all the
family?"

"'Deed, can't complain," replied Bartle, "as time goes; an' how are you,
Fardorougha? although I needn't ax--you re takin' care of number one,
any how."

"I'm middlin', Bartle, middlin'; as well as a man can be that has his
heart broke every day in the year strivin' to come by his own, an' can't
do it; but I'm a fool, an' ever was--sarvin' others an' ruinin' myself."

"Bartle," said Mrs. Donovan, "are you unwell, dear? you look as pale as
death. Let me get you a drink of fresh milk."

"If he's weak," said Fardorougha, "an' he looks weak, a drink of fresh
wather 'ud be betther for him; ever an' always a drink of wather for a
weak man, or a weak woman aither; it recovers them sooner."

"Thank you, kindly, Mrs. Donovan, an' I'm obliged to you, Fardorougha,
for the wather; but I'm not a bit weak; it's only the heat o' the day
ails me--for sure enough it's broilin' weather."

"'Deed it is," replied Honora, "kill in' weather to them that has to be
out undher it."

"If it's good for nothin' else, it's good for, the hay--makin',"
observed Fardorougha.

"I'm tould, Misther Donovan," said Bartle, "that' you want a sarvint
man: now, if you do, I want a place, an' you see I'm comin' to you to
look for one."

"Heaven above, Bartle!" exclaimed Honora, "what do you mean? Is it