“That’s your say, Misther Lynch; and now, listen to mine.  Av’ Miss Anty was wishing to see you, you’d be welcome upstairs, for her sake; but she ain’t, so there’s an end of that; for not a foot will you put inside this, unless you’re intending to force your way, and I don’t think you’ll be for trying that.  And as to bearing the danger, why, I’ll do my best; and, for all the harm you’re likely to do me—­that’s by fair manes,—­I don’t think I’ll be axing any one to help me out of it.  So, good bye t’ ye, av’ you’ve no further commands, for I didn’t yet well finish the bit I was ating.”

“And you mean to say, Mrs Kelly, you’ll take upon yourself to prevent my seeing my sister?”

“Indeed I do; unless she was wishing it, as well as yourself; and no mistake.”

“And you’ll do that, knowing, as you do, that the unfortunate young woman is of weak mind, and unable to judge for herself, and that I’m her brother, and her only living relative and guardian?”

“All blathershin, Masther Barry,” said the uncourteous widow, dropping the knife from her hand, and smacking her fingers:  “as for wake mind, it’s sthrong enough to take good care of herself and her money too, now she’s once out of Dunmore House.  There many waker than Anty Lynch, though few have had worse tratement to make them so.  As for guardian, I’m thinking it’s long since she was of age, and, av’ her father didn’t think she wanted one, when he made his will, you needn’t bother yourself about it, now she’s no one to plaze only herself.  And as for brother, Masther Barry, why didn’t you think of that before you struck her, like a brute, as you are—­before you got dhrunk, like a baste, and then threatened to murdher her?  Why didn’t you think about brother and sisther before you thried to rob the poor wake crature, as you call her; and when you found she wasn’t quite wake enough, as you call it, swore to have her life, av’ she wouldn’t act at your bidding?  That’s being a brother and a guardian, is it, Masther Barry?  Talk to me of danger, you ruffian,” continued the widow, with her back now thoroughly up; “you’d betther look to yourself, or I know who’ll be in most danger.  Av’ it wasn’t the throuble it’d be to Anty,—­and, God knows, she’s had throubles enough, I’d have had her before the magisthrates before this, to tell of what was done last night up at the house, yonder.  But mind, she can do it yet, and, av’ you don’t take yourself very asy, she shall.  Danger, indeed! a robber and ruffian like you, to talk of danger to me—­and his dear sisther, too, and aftimer trying his best, last night, to murdher her!”

These last words, with a long drawl on the word dear, were addressed rather to the crowd, whom the widow’s loud voice had attracted into the open shop, than to Barry, who stood, during this tirade, half stupefied with rage, and half frightened, at the open attack made on him with reference to his ill-treatment of Anty.  However, he couldn’t pull in his horns now, and he was obliged, in self-defence, to brazen it out.