“Whisht, now,” said Margaret, interrupting him, “you're beginnin' to praise yourself.” “Well, I won't then; I'm going down the town to have a glass or two o' cordial wid young Tom Whiskey, in Barney Scaddhan's.” “Art,” she replied, somewhat solemnly, “the very name of Barney Scaddhan sickens me. I know we ought to forgive every one, as we hope to be forgiven ourselves; but still, Art, if I was in your shoes, the sorra foot ever I'd put inside his door. Think of the way he trated you; ah, Art acushla, where's the pride of the ould blood now?” “Hut, woman, divil a one o' me ever could keep in bad feelin' to any one. Troth, Barney of late's as civil a crature as there's alive; sure what you spake of was all my own fault and not his; I'll be back in an hour or so.” “Well,” said his wife, “there's one thing, Art, that every one knows.” “What is that, Margaret?” “Why, that a man's never safe in bad company.” “But sure, what harm can they do me, when we drink nothing that can injure us?” “Well, then,” said she, “as that's the case, can't you as well stay with good company as bad?” “I'll not be away more than an hour.” “Then, since you will go, Art, listen to me; you'll be apt to meet Toal Finnigan there; now, as you love me and your childre, an' as you wish to avoid evil and misfortune, don't do any one thing that he proposes to you: I've often tould you that he's your bitterest enemy.” “I know you did; but sure, wanst a woman takes a pick (pique) aginst a man she'll never forgive him. In about an hour mind.” He then went out.