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 one of Dan Flanagan's sons goin' to sarvice?” “Not one, but all of them,” replied the other, coolly, “an' his daughters, too, Mrs. Donovan; but it's all the way o! the world. If Mr. Donovan 'll hire me I'll thank him.” “Don't be Mistherin' me, Bartle; Misther them that has means an' substance,” returned Donovan. “Oh, God forgive you, Fardorougha!” exclaimed his honest and humane wife. “God forgive you! Bartle, from my heart, from the core o' my heart, I pity you, my poor boy. An' is it to this, Fardorougha, you've brought them--Oh, Saviour o' the world!”