But Anty, though she dreaded her brother, was firm.  Wonderful as it may appear, she even loved him.  She begged him not to quarrel with her,—­promised to do everything to oblige him, and answered his wrath with gentleness; but it was of no avail.  Barry knew that her agent was a plotter—­that he would plot against his influence—­though he little guessed then what would be the first step Moylan would take, or how likely it would be, if really acted on, to lead to his sister’s comfort and happiness.  After this, Barry passed two months of great misery and vexation.  He could not make up his mind what to do, or what final steps to take, either about the property, his sister, or himself.  At first, he thought of frightening Moylan and his sister, by pretending that he would prove Anty to be of weak mind, and not fit to manage her own affairs, and that he would indict the old man for conspiracy; but he felt that Moylan was not a man to be frightened by such bugbears.  Then, he made up his mind to turn all he had into money, to leave his sister to the dogs, or any one who might choose to rob her, and go and live abroad.  Then he thought, if his sister should die, what a pity it would be, he should lose it all, and how he should blame himself, if she were to die soon after having married some low adventurer; and he reflected; how probable such a thing would be—­how likely that such a man would soon get rid of her; and then his mind began to dwell on her death, and to wish for it.  He found himself constantly thinking of it, and ruminating on it, and determining that it was the only event which could set him right.  His own debts would swallow up half his present property; and how could he bring himself to live on the pitiful remainder, when that stupid idiot, as he called her to himself, had three times more than she could possibly want?  Morning after morning, he walked about the small grounds round the house, with his hat over his eyes, and his hands tossing about the money in his pockets, thinking of this,—­cursing his father, and longing—­almost praying for his sister’s death.  Then he would have his horse, and flog the poor beast along the roads without going anywhere, or having any object in view, but always turning the same thing over and over in his mind.  And, after dinner, he would sit, by the hour, over the fire, drinking, longing for his sister’s money, and calculating the probabilities of his ever possessing it.  He began to imagine all the circumstances which might lead to her death; he thought of all the ways in which persons situated as she was, might, and often did, die.  He reflected, without knowing that he was doing so, on the probability of robbers breaking into the house, if she were left alone in it, and of their murdering her; he thought of silly women setting their own clothes on fire—­of their falling out of window—­drowning themselves—­of their perishing in a hundred possible but improbable ways.  It was after he had been drinking a while,