It might, indeed, habitually be said of Dr. Mangan that he knew very well what to do.  There were, indeed, but two occasions on record when it might have seemed that he had not so known.  The first of these was when he had abandoned an improving practice in Dublin to work as his father’s partner in his native Cluhir, the second, when, preliminary to that return, he had married a lady, alleged, by inventive and disagreeable people, to have been his cook.  The disagreeable people had also said disagreeable things as to the nature of the stress that had prompted the marriage.  But it was now twenty years since the Mangans had been established at Number Six, The Mall, Cluhir; the Doctor had come in for his father’s money as well as his practice, and was respected as “a warm man”; the disagreeable ones had grown old, and people who are both old and disagreeable cannot expect to command a large audience.  Mrs. Mangan, on the contrary, was neither the one nor the other, being, at this time, but little over forty, and as kindly, lazy, and handsome a creature as ever lived down spiteful gossip by good-nature.  When “The Dawkthor” (as she called him, with a drowsy drag on the first syllable) had galloped in at one o’clock to command Barty’s room to be got ready at once, Mrs. Mangan was still in what she called “dishable,” and was straying between her bedroom and the kitchen, pleasurably involved in the cares of both.

“They say young Coppinger fell in the river, and he’s broken his wrist,” said the Doctor rapidly, stamping into his wife’s room, bringing the wind of the hills with him.  “I’ll bring him here as soon as I can get hold of him.”

“The creature!” replied Mrs. Mangan, sympathetically.

“Well, don’t be waiting to pity him now!” said her husband, stuffing bandages into his pocket, “but hurry and put hot jars into the bed—­and clean sheets.  Don’t forget now, Annie!”

He lumbered in his long boots and spurs, down to the surgery, still issuing directions.

“Tishy’ll be back directly—­she’ll give you a hand—­and Annie! tell Hannah to have some hot soup ready.  Now, hurry, for God’s sake!”

The front door into the Mall, Cluhir’s most fashionable quarter, banged.

“Well, well!” said Mrs. Mangan, still sympathetic, while she removed the curling-pins from her bison fringe; “wasn’t it the will of God that I had a headache this morning and couldn’t go to Mass!  I’ll have something to say to Father Greer now if he draws it up to me that I was backward in my duty!”

Much fortified by this reflection, Mrs. Mangan hurriedly proceeded with her toilette, squalling meanwhile to her bench-woman in the kitchen a summary of the Doctor’s orders.  She had no more than achieved what she called her “Sunday dress,” a complimentary effort to be equally divided between Saint Stephen and young Mr. Coppinger, when the back-door into the yard from the house slammed, and her daughter’s voice announced her return.