Cuckoo took shelter behind the chair of her elder brother, and whispered to him, as she munched her macaroons, that “if anyone ought to be sent to a reformatory, it was Denis; he was out now, smoking in the harness room, with Casey, the jockey, and Mooney, the sweep.” Soon after this refection the family retired to rest. George had the luxury of a fire in his room, and sat before it for a long time, buried in thought. What a home this was! His mother a mere heart-broken household drudge; his sister a mischievous, razor-tongued little savage; his brother--he was beginning to fear that Denis, of whom his mother had written such glowing accounts, was neither more nor less than an idle scapegrace; and, as to Major Malone--he was Major Malone. Before the mistress of the house removed her unwonted finery, she got an envelope and pencil, and hurriedly jotted down her most pressing debts. The butcher’s bill was £209. Would £80 stop Mrs. Maccabe’s mouth? The baker was owed £75, and one of Denis’ most dangerous creditors was clamouring for a hundred “on the nail.” There would be no margin for Cuckoo’s new outfit, nor for the sealskin jacket for herself, at which George had hinted. This three hundred would be a mere drop in the ocean. George must write her a larger cheque. Yes! poor woman, her finer feelings were blunted by distressing and disgraceful shifts; the iron entered into her soul when she evaded Miss Bolland, and cringed to Mrs. Maccabe--terrible Mrs. Maccabe! George was well off; he had no ties, and but few expenses; and, in spite of all her tears and deprecations, she was prepared to despoil her eldest born, to shield and succour Denis. “Lucy,” said the Major, looking through his dressing-room door, tie in hand, “do you think that fellow would back a bill for me? Eh! what? what?” “No, indeed, Major, I am certain he would not,” she returned indignantly. “What have you got on that paper there? Eh, show.” “Bills; debts; we owe so much money that I am ashamed to walk through the town. Cleary, the grocer, sent up to-day, and, as to Mrs. Maccabe, I tremble when I see her.” “Pooh! So does everyone; you are not uncommon in that, the old termagant! I say, is that son of yours going to put his hand in his pocket? What’s the use of a rich fellow like that, if he won’t help his mother. Eh! what? what?” “He is not rich, far from it; he believes that I have my jointure of four hundred a year; he does not know that I sold my life interest in it years ago.” “I hope you impressed upon him that times were bad; I will go bail you cried; it’s about the only thing you are good at,” he concluded with a savage sneer. “He has promised me a cheque for three hundred pounds,” said Mrs. Malone coldly. “By Jove! then I will go halves!” “No, indeed, it’s little, it’s not half enough. Do you know that we owe Kane, the baker, seventy-five pounds, and he is a poor man too.”