had prompted the marriage. But it was now twenty years since the
Mangans had been established at Number Six, The Mall, Cluhir; the
Doctor had come in for his father's money as well as his practice, and
was respected as "a warm man"; the disagreeable ones had grown old,
and people who are both old and disagreeable cannot expect to command
a large audience. Mrs. Mangan, on the contrary, was neither the one
nor the other, being, at this time, but little over forty, and as
kindly, lazy, and handsome a creature as ever lived down spiteful
gossip by good-nature. When "The Dawkthor" (as she called him, with a
drowsy drag on the first syllable) had galloped in at one o'clock to
command Barty's room to be got ready at once, Mrs. Mangan was still in
what she called "dishable," and was straying between her bedroom and
the kitchen, pleasurably involved in the cares of both.

"They say young Coppinger fell in the river, and he's broken his
wrist," said the Doctor rapidly, stamping into his wife's room,
bringing the wind of the hills with him. "I'll bring him here as soon
as I can get hold of him."

"The creature!" replied Mrs. Mangan, sympathetically.

"Well, don't be waiting to pity him now!" said her husband, stuffing
bandages into his pocket, "but hurry and put hot jars into the
bed--and clean sheets. Don't forget now, Annie!"

He lumbered in his long boots and spurs, down to the surgery, still
issuing directions.

"Tishy'll be back directly--she'll give you a hand--and Annie! tell
Hannah to have some hot soup ready. Now, hurry, for God's sake!"