Bartle Flanagan was a young man, about five feet six in height, but of a remarkably compact and athletic form.  His complexion was dark, but his countenance open, and his features well set and regular.  Indeed his whole appearance might be termed bland and prepossessing.  If he ever appeared to disadvantage it was whilst under the influence of resentment, during which his face became pale as death, nay, almost livid; and, as his brows were strong and black, the contrast between them and his complexion changed the whole expression of his countenance into that of a person whose enmity a prudent man would avoid.  He was not quarrelsome, however, nor subject to any impetuous bursts of passion; his resentments, if he retained any, were either dead or silent, or, at all events, so well regulated that his acquaintances looked upon him as a young fellow of a good-humored and friendly disposition.  It is true, a hint had gone abroad that on one or two occasions he was found deficient in courage; but, as the circumstances referred to were rather unimportant, his conduct by many was attributed rather to good sense and a disinclination to quarrel on frivolous grounds, than to positive cowardice.  Such he was, and such he is, now that he has entered upon the humble drama of our story.

On arriving at Fardorougha’s house, he found that worthy man at dinner, upon a cold bone of bacon and potatoes.  He had only a few moments before returned from the residence of the County Treasurer, with whom he went to lodge, among other sums, that which was so iniquitously wrung from the ruin of the Flanagans.  It would be wrong to say that he felt in any degree embarrassed on looking into the face of one whom he had so oppressively injured.  The recovery of his usurious debts, no matter how merciless the process, he considered only as an act of justice to himself, for his conscience having long ago outgrown the perception of his own inhumanity, now only felt compunction when death or the occasional insolvency of a security defeated his rapacity.

When Bartle entered, Fardorougha and he surveyed each other with perfect coolness for nearly half a minute, during which time neither uttered a word.  The silence was first broken by Honora, who put forward a chair, and asked Flanagan to sit down.

“Sit down, Bartle,” said she, “sit down, boy; an’ how is all the family?”

“‘Deed, can’t complain,” replied Bartle, “as time goes; an’ how are you, Fardorougha? although I needn’t ax—­you re takin’ care of number one, any how.”

“I’m middlin’, Bartle, middlin’; as well as a man can be that has his heart broke every day in the year strivin’ to come by his own, an’ can’t do it; but I’m a fool, an’ ever was—­sarvin’ others an’ ruinin’ myself.”

“Bartle,” said Mrs. Donovan, “are you unwell, dear? you look as pale as death.  Let me get you a drink of fresh milk.”

“If he’s weak,” said Fardorougha, “an’ he looks weak, a drink of fresh wather ‘ud be betther for him; ever an’ always a drink of wather for a weak man, or a weak woman aither; it recovers them sooner.”