His ride home, though a rapid, was by no means a pleasing one.  M’Mahon had not only refused to lend him the money he stood in need of, but actually quarrelled with him, as far as he could judge, for no other purpose but that he might make the quarrel a plea for refusing him.  This disappointment, to a person of Hycy’s disposition, was, we have seen, bitterly vexatious, and it may be presumed that he reached home in anything but an agreeable humor.  Having dismounted, he was about to enter the hall-door, when his attention was directed towards that of the kitchen by a rather loud hammering, and on turning his eyes to the spot he found two or three tinkers very busily engaged in soldering, clasping, and otherwise repairing certain vessels belonging to that warm and spacious establishment.  The leader of these vagrants was a man named Philip Hogan, a fellow of surprising strength and desperate character, whose feats of hardihood and daring had given him a fearful notoriety over a large district of the country.  Hogan was a man whom almost every one feared, being, from confidence, we presume, in his great strength, as well as by nature, both insolent, overbearing, and ruffianly in the extreme.  His inseparable and appropriate companion was a fierce and powerful bull-dog of the old Irish breed, which he had so admirably trained that it was only necessary to give him a sign, and he would seize by the throat either man or beast, merely in compliance with the will of his master.  On this occasion he was accompanied by two of his brothers, who were, in fact, nearly as impudent and offensive ruffians as himself.  Hycy paused for a moment, seemed thoughtful, and tapped his boot with the point of his whip as he looked at them.  On entering the parlor he found dinner over, and his father, as was usual, waiting to get his tumbler of punch.

“Where’s my mother?” he asked—­“where’s Mrs. Burke?”

On uttering the last words he raised his voice so as she might distinctly hear him.

“She’s above stairs gettin’ the whiskey,” replied his father, “and God knows she’s long enough about it.”

Hycy ran up, and meeting her on the lobby, said, in a low, anxious voice—­

“Well, what news?  Will he stand it?”

“No,” she replied, “you may give up the notion—­he won’t do it, an’ there’s no use in axin’ him any more.”

“He won’t do it!” repeated the son; “are you certain now?”

“Sure an’ sartin.  I done all that could be done; but it’s worse an’ worse he got.”

Something escaped Hycy in the shape of an ejaculation, of which we are not in possession at present; he immediately added:—­

“Well, never mind.  Heavens! how I pity you, ma’am—­to be united to such a d—­d—­hem!—­to such a—­a—­such a—­gentleman!”

Mrs. Burke raised her hands as if to intimate that it was useless to indulge in any compassion of the kind.

“The thing’s now past cure,” she said; “I’m a marthyr, an’ that’s all that’s about it.  Come down till I get you your dinner.”