“The same house was a black sight to you, Art.”

“Here, Atty, go off and, get me a naggin.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to get something to eat, than to drink it, Art.”

“None of your prate, I say, go off an’ bring me a naggin o’ whiskey, an’ don’t let the grass grow under your feet.”

The children, whenever he came home, were awed into silence, but although they durst not speak, there was an impatient voracity visible in their poor features, and now wolfish little eyes, that was a terrible thing to witness.  Art took the money, and went away to bring his father the whiskey.

“What’s the reason,” said he, kindling into sudden fury, “that you didn’t provide something for me to eat?  Eh?  What’s the reason?” and he approached her in a menacing attitude.  “You’re a lazy, worthless vagabone.  Why didn’t you get me something to ait, I say?  I can’t stand this—­I’m famished.”

“I sent to my sister’s,” she replied, laying-down the child; for she feared that if he struck her and knocked her down, with the child in her arms, it might be injured, probably killed, by the fall; “when the messenger comes back from my sister’s——­”

“D—­n yourself and your sister,” he replied, striking her a blow at the same time upon the temple.  She fell, and in an instant her face was deluged with blood.

“Ay, lie there,” he continued, “the loss of the blood will cool you.  Hould your tongues, you devils, or I’ll throw yez out of the house,” he exclaimed to the children, who burst into an uproar of grief on seeing their “mammy,” as they called her, lying bleeding and insensible.  “That’s to taich her not to have something for me to ait.  Ay,” he proceeded, with a hideous laugh—­“ha, ha, ha!  I’m a fine fellow—­amn’t I?  There she lies now, and yet she was wanst Margaret Murray!—­my own Margaret—­that left them all for myself; but sure if she did, wasn’t I one of the great Maguires of Fermanagh?—­Get up, Margaret; here, I’ll help you up, if the divil was in you!”

He raised her as he spoke, and perceived that consciousness was returning.  The first thing she did was to put up her hand to her temple, where she felt the warm blood.  She gave him one look of profound sorrow.

“Oh, Art dear,” she exclaimed, “Art dear—­” her voice failed her, but the tears flowed in torrents down her cheeks.

“Margaret,” said he, “you needn’t spake to me that way.  You know any how I’m damned—­damned—­lol de rol lol—­tol de rol lol! ha, ha, ha!  I have no hope either here or hereafther—­divil a morsel of hope.  Isn’t that comfortable? eh?—­ha, ha, ha”—­another hideous laugh.  “Well, no matter; we’ll dhrink it out, at all events.  Where’s Atty, wid the whiskey?  Oh, here he is!  That’s a good boy, Atty.”

“Oh, mammy darlin’,” exclaimed the child, on seeing the blood streaming from her temple—­“mammy darlin’, what happened you?”

“I fell, Atty dear,” she replied, “and was cut.”