Hycy took his seat in the parlor, and began to give a stave of the “Bay of Biscay:”—­

     “’Loud roar’d the dreadful thunder,
     The rain a deluge pours;
     The clouds were rent asunder
     By light’ning’s vivid—­’

By the way, mother, what are those robbing ruffians, the Hogans, doing at the kitchen door there?”

“Troth, whatever they like,” she replied.  “I tould that vagabond, Philip, that I had nothing for them to do, an’ says he, ’I’m the best judge of that, Rosha Burke.’  An, with that he walks into the kitchen, an’ takes everything that he seen a flaw in, an’ there he and them sat a mendin’ an’ sotherin’ an’ hammerin’ away at them, without ever sayin’ ‘by your lave.’”

“It’s perfectly well known that they’re robbers,” said Hycy, “and the general opinion is that they’re in connection with a Dublin gang, who are in this part of the country at present.  However, I’ll speak to the ruffians about such conduct.”

He then left the parlor, and proceeding to the farmyard, made a signal to one of the Hogans, who went down hammer in hand to where he stood.  During a period of ten minutes, he and Hycy remained in conversation, but of what character it was, whether friendly or otherwise, the distance at which they stood rendered it impossible for any one to ascertain.  Hycy then returned to dinner, whilst his father in the meantime sat smoking his pipe, and sipping from time to time at his tumbler of punch.  Mrs. Burke, herself, occupied an arm-chair to the left of the fire, engaged at a stocking which was one of a pair that she contrived to knit for her husband during every twelve months; and on the score of which she pleaded strong claims to a character of most exemplary and indefatigable industry.

“Any news from the market, Hycy?” said his father.

“Yes,” replied Hycy, in that dry ironical tone which he always used to his parents—­“rather interesting—­Ballymacan is in the old place.”

“Bekaise,” replied his father, with more quickness than might be expected, as he whiffed away the smoke with a face of very sarcastic humor; “I hard it had gone up a bit towards the mountains—­but I knew you wor the boy could tell me whether it had or not—­ha!—­ha!—­ha!”

This rejoinder, in addition to the intelligence Hycy had just received from his mother, was not calculated to improve his temper.  “You may laugh,” he replied; “but if your respectable father had treated you in a spirit so stingy and beggarly as that which I experience at your hands, I don’t know how you might have borne it.”

“My father!” replied Burke; “take your time, Hycy—­my hand to you, he had a different son to manage from what I have.”

“God sees that’s truth,” exclaimed his wife, turning the expression to her son’s account.

“I was no gentleman, Hycy,” Burke proceeded.

“Ah, is it possible?” said the son, with a sneer.  “Are you sure of that, now?”