“Faith, an' it's but rasonable, Barny, an' you must get Rody home wid you. I suppose he's asleep in his bed by this, but we'll rouse him!”
Barny replied by a loud triumphant laugh, for this was one of his standing jests.
“Well, Frank,” said he, “I never thought you war so soft, and me can pick my steps me same at night as in daylight! Sure that's the way I done them to-night, when one o' Granua's strings broke. 'Sweets o' psin,' says I; 'a candle—bring me a candle immediately.' An' down came Rody in all haste wid a candle. 'Six eggs to you, Rody,' says myself, 'an' half-a-dozen o' them rotten! but you're a bright boy, to bring a candle to a blind man!' and then he stood a bouloare to the whole house—ha, ha, ha!”
Barny, who was not the man to rise first from the whiskey, commenced the relation of his choicest anecdotes; old Frank and the family, being now in a truly genial mood, entered into the spirit of his jests, so that between chat, songs, and whiskey, the hour had now advanced to four o'clock. The fiddler was commencing another song, when the door opened, and Frank presented himself, nearly, but not altogether in a state of intoxication; his face was besmeared with blood; and his whole appearance that of a man under the influence of strong passion, such as would seem to be produced by disappointment and defeat.
“What!” said the father, “is it snowin', Frank? Your clothes are covered wid snow!”
“Lord, guard us!” exclaimed the mother, “is that blood upon your face, Frank?”
“It is snowin', and it is blood that's upon my face,” answered Frank, moodily—“do you want to know more news?”
“Why, ay indeed,” replied his mother, “we want to hear how you came to be cut?”
“You won't hear it, thin,” he replied.
The mother was silent, for she knew the terrible fits of passion to which he was subject.