Sally opened the door for him, and the widow, who had come out from the shop, made him a low courtesy in the passage. “Oh—ah—yes—Mrs Kelly, I believe?” said Barry. “Yes, Mr Lynch, that’s my name; glory be to God!” “My sister, Miss Lynch, is still staying here, I believe?” “Why, drat it, man; wasn’t Dr Colligan with you less than an hour ago, telling you you must come here, av you wanted to see her?” “You’ll oblige me by sending up the servant to tell Miss Lynch I’m here.” “Walk up here a minute, and I’ll do that errand for you myself.—Well,” continued she, muttering to herself “for him to ax av she war staying here, as though he didn’t know it! There niver was his ditto for desait, maneness and divilry!” A minute or two after the widow had left him, Barry found himself by his sister’s bed-side, but never had he found himself in a position for which he was less fitted, or which was less easy to him. He assumed, however, a long and solemn face, and crawling up to the bed-side, told his sister, in a whining voice, that he was very glad to see her. “Sit down, Barry, sit down,” said Anty, stretching out her thin pale hand, and taking hold of her brother’s. Barry did as he was told, and sat down. “I’m so glad to see you, Barry,” said she: “I’m so very glad to see you once more—” and then after a pause, “and it’ll be the last time, Barry, for I’m dying.” Barry told her he didn’t think she was, for he didn’t know when he’d seen her looking better. “Yes, I am, Barry: Doctor Colligan has said as much; and I should know it well enough myself, even if he’d never said a word. We’re friends now, are we not?—Everything’s forgiven and forgotten, isn’t it, Barry?” Anty had still hold of her brother’s hand, and seemed desirous to keep it. He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against the bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind. “Oh, of course it is, Anty,” said he; “forgive and forget; that was always my motto. I’m sure I never bore any malice—indeed I never was so sorry as when you went away, and—” “Ah, Barry,” said Anty; “it was better I went then; may-be it’s all better as it is. When the priest has been with me and given me comfort, I won’t fear to die. But there are other things, Barry, I want to spake to you about.” “If there’s anything I can do, I’m sure I’d do it: if there’s anything at all you wish done.—Would you like to come up to the house again?” “Oh no, Barry, not for worlds.” “Why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn’t it be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? These people here are all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother to you, eh?—so interested, you know, in everything they do.” “Ah! Barry, you don’t know them.”