“Sartinly, we must.”

“So shall ‘the accomplished.’  Clinton and I shall honor that lugubrious ceremony with our presence; but as respecting the clodhopper himself, meaning thereby Bryan of Ahadarra, he is provided for.  What an unlucky thought to enter into the old fellow’s noddle!  However, non constat, as Finigan would say, time will develop.”

“You’re not gainin’ ground with him at all events,” said his mother; “ever since that Crazy Jane affair he’s changed for the worse towards both of us, or ever since the robbery I ought to say, for he’s dark and has something on his mind ever since.”

“I’m in the dark there myself, most amiable of mothers; however, as I said just now, I say time will develop.”

He then began to prepare himself for the business of the day, which consisted principally in riding about seeking out new adventures, or, as they term it, hunting in couples, with Harry Clinton.

CHAPTER XIII.—­Mrs. M’Mahon’s Funeral.

On the morning of Mrs. M’Mahon’s funeral, the house as is usual in such cases, was filled with relatives and neighbors, each and all anxious to soothe and give comfort to the afflicted family.  Protestants and Presbyterians were there, who entered as deeply and affectionately into the sorrow which was felt as if they were connected to them by blood.  Moving about with something like authority, was Dennis O’Grady, the Roman Catholic Parish Clerk, who, with a semi-clerical bearing, undertook to direct the religious devotions which are usual on such occasions.  In consequence of the dearth of schools and teachers that then existed in our unfortunate country, it frequently happened, that persons were, from necessity, engaged in aiding the performance of religious duties, who were possessed of very little education, if not, as was too often the case, absolutely and wholly illiterate.  Dennis was not absolutely illiterate, but, in good truth, he was by no means far removed from that uncomfortable category.  Finigan, the schoolmaster, was also present; and as he claimed acquaintance with the classics, and could understand and read with something like correctness the Latin offices, which were frequently repeated on these occasions it would be utterly impossible to describe the lofty scorn and haughty supercilious contempt with which he contemplated poor Dennis, who kept muttering away at the Confiteor and De Profundis with a barbarity of pronunciation that rendered it impossible for human ears to understand a single word he said.  Finigan, swollen with an indignation which he could no longer suppress, and stimulated by a glass or two of whiskey, took three or four of the neighbors over to a corner, where, whilst his eyes rested on Dennis with a most withering expression of scorn, he exclaimed—­“Here, hand me that manual, and get out o’ my way, you illiterate nonentity and most unsufferable appendage to religion.”