So, at last, he roused himself, and endeavoured to think what he should do. Whilst he was sitting up in his bed, and reflecting that he must undress himself before he could dress himself—for he had tumbled into bed with most of his clothes on—Terry’s red head appeared at the door, showing an anxiety, on the part of its owner, to see if “the masther” was awake, but to take no step to bring about such a state, if, luckily, he still slept. “What’s the time, Terry?” said Lynch, frightened, by his own state, into rather more courtesy than he usually displayed to those dependent on him. “Well then, I b’lieve it’s past one, yer honer.” “The d––––l it is! I’ve such a headache. I was screwed last night; eh, Terry?” “I b’lieve yer war, yer honer.” “What o’clock was it when I went to bed?” “Well then, I don’t rightly know, Mr Barry; it wasn’t only about ten when I tuk in the last hot wather, and I didn’t see yer honer afther that.” “Well; tell Miss Anty to make me a cup of tea, and do you bring it up here.” This was a feeler. If anything was the matter with Anty, Terry would be sure to tell him now; but he only said, “Yis, yer honer,” and retreated. Barry now comforted himself with the reflection that there was no great harm done, and that though, certainly, there had been some row between him and Anty, it would probably blow over; and then, also, he began to reflect that, perhaps, what he had said and done, would frighten her out of her match with Kelly. In the meantime. Terry went into the kitchen, with the news that “masther was awake, and axing for tay.” Biddy had considered herself entitled to remain all the morning at the inn, having, in a manner, earned a right to be idle for that day, by her activity during the night; and the other girl had endeavoured to enjoy the same luxury, for she had been found once or twice during the morning, ensconced in the kitchen, under Sally’s wing; but Mrs Kelly had hunted her back, to go and wait on her master, giving her to understand that she would not receive the whole household. “And ye’re afther telling him where Miss Anty’s gone, Terry?” inquired the injured fair one. “Divil a tell for me thin,—shure, he may find it out hisself, widout my telling him.” “Faix, it’s he’ll be mad thin, when he finds she’s taken up with the likes of the widdy Kelly!” “And ain’t she betther there, nor being murthered up here? He’d be killing her out and out some night.” “Well, but Terry, he’s not so bad as all that; there’s worse than him, and ain’t it rasonable he shouldn’t be quiet and asy, and she taking up with the likes of Martin Kelly?” “May be so; but wouldn’t she be a dale happier with Martin than up here wid him? Any ways it don’t do angering him, so, get him the tay, Judy.” It was soon found that this was easier said than done, for Anty, in her confusion, had taken away the keys in her pocket, and there was no tea to be had.