But no, Donovan Ryan staggered into the kitchen, and greeted his wife with an inane smile, which in no wise deceived her, taught by many an experience, how more than likely it was that the next moment his tipsy amiability might be exchanged for the utmost fury. "An' what will I be gettin' for yer tay? Shure ye're home airly the night," she tremblingly said. "It's yersilf that's mighty oblagin' intoirely, an' hasn't Donovan Ryan, at yer service, ma'am,"--making a low bow which nearly lost him his unsteady balance,--"a right to kem to his own home whiniver it may plaze him, widout askin' yer lave, ye miserable, dirthy, scoldin' broth uv a wumman?" Donovan had raised his voice from low, mocking accents to stentorian tones, which shook the little room. Poor Mrs. Ryan shrank further and further away. "Shure, Donovan, I meant no harm at all, at all. Be aisy now; an' I'll git ye a cup uv tay in a jiffy," she said, coaxingly. But, according to his ideas, Donovan had received a grievous insult, and there was only one way in which the said insult could be avenged; and, being made of that stern, courageous stuff of which some few of our British workmen are composed, he proceeded to teach Mrs. Ryan, in a very practical manner, that she really must not venture to offend the perfectly justifiable ideas which he held of his own importance and dignity. In all wifely submission, as in duty bound, and according to long-established custom, she made no demur to the very ordinary proceeding which occupied Donovan's attention for the next few minutes. "See what ye'll git for venturin' to interfare wid yer husban'," he said, as he paused for want of breath. With a well-directed kick at the prostrate form before him, and a few genial imprecations on womankind in general and his own wife in particular, he shuffled out of the house. "He's been up to his tricks again; a beatin' of his poor wife. It's well he ain't my husband. I'd never stand it as she does, poor creature," said one of the women who were standing about. "I don't see how you'd prevent it; but I'm going in to see whether poor Mrs. Ryan is quite done for." Mrs. Fisher, the last speaker, left the group and entered her neighbour's house. In response to a feeble "Come in," she opened the kitchen door, which Donovan had slammed behind him. Mrs. Ryan was sitting on the floor crying bitterly. "I'm kilt intoirely, Mrs. Fisher, an' me poor babby's frighted to death. Shure her father's a murtherin', battherin' wretch. I'll take him afore the magisthrate, I will." "Poor thing, let me see what I can do for you," said Mrs. Fisher. A few womanly ministrations, a cup of tea and kindly words, and Mrs. Ryan was comforted. "Don't be thinkin' hardly uv Donovan. He's civil spoken an' kind enough whin the dhrink's out uv him; an' I'll have to put up wid his cross worruds an' his batin's, for he's me husban' an' the father uv me childer," were her parting words to her neighbour.