d the steps, and asked to
see Mrs. Sturk.

'My dear Madam,' said he, after due courtesies interchanged, 'I've but a
few minutes; my horse waits yonder at the Phoenix, and I'm away to
town. How does your patient to-day?'

'Oh, mighty well--wonderful--that is considering how cold the weather
is. The doctor says he's lower, indeed, but I don't mind that, for he
must be lower while the cold continues; I always say that; and I judge
very much by the eye; don't you, Mr. Dangerfield? by his looks, you
know; they can't deceive me, and I assure you--'

'Your house is quiet; are the children out, Ma'am?'

'Oh, yes, with Mag in the park.'

'Perhaps, Ma'am, you'd let me see him?'

'See him?'

'Yes, look on him, Ma'am, only for a moment you know.'

She looked very much surprised, and perhaps a little curious and
frightened.

'I hope you haven't heard he's worse, Mr. Dangerfield. Oh, Sir, sure you
haven't?'

'No, Madam, on my honour, except from yourself, I've heard nothing of
him to-day; but I'd like to see him, and speak a word to you, with your
permission.'

So Mrs. Sturk led the way up stairs, whispering as she ascended; for she
had always the fancy in her head that her Barney was in a sweet light
sleep, from which he was on no account to be awakened, forgetting, or
not clearly knowing, that all the ordnance in the barrack-yard over the
way had not voice enough to call him up from that dread slumber.

'You may go down, my dear,' said Mr. Dangerfield to the little girl, who
rose silently from the chair as they entered; 'with your permission,
Mistress Sturk--I say, child, you may run down,' and he smiled a
playful, sinister smile, with a little wave of his finger toward the
door. So she courtesied and vanished obediently.

Then he drew the curtain, and looked on Doctor Sturk. There lay the hero
of the tragedy, his smashed head strapped together with
sticking-plaster, and a great white fold of fine linen, like a fantastic
turban, surmounting his grim yellow features.

Then he slipped his fingers under the coverlet, and took his hand; a
strange greeting that! But it was his pulse he wanted, and when he had
felt it for a while--

'Psha!' said he in a whisper--for the semblance of sleep affected
everyone alike--'his pulse is just gone. Now, Madam, listen to me.
There's not a soul in Chapelizod but yourself who does not know his
wounds are mortal--he's _dying_, Ma'am.'

'Oh--oh--o--o--oh, Mr. Dangerfield, you don't