“But for all that,” observed Andy Lalor, “it’s still best to go to the man that puts the questions, you persave, and that won’t let the turning of a straw escape him.  Whin myself goes to Father Philemy, somehow or other, I totally disremember more nor wan half of what I intinded to tell him, but Father Con misses nothing, for he axes it.”

When the last observation was finished, Father Con, finding that the usual hour for breakfast had arrived, came into the kitchen, to prepare for the celebration of mass.  For this purpose, a table was cleared, and just in the nick of time arrived old Moll Brian, the vestment woman, or itinerant sacristan, whose usual occupation was to carry the priests’ robes and other apparatus, from station to station.  In a short time, Father Con was surpliced and robed; Andy Lalor, whose face was charged with commensurate importance during the ceremony, sarved Mass, and answered the priest stoutly in Latin although he had not the advantage of understanding that sacerdotal language.  Those who had confessed, now communicated; after which, each of them took a draught, of water out of a small jug, which was handed round from one to another.  The ceremony then closed, and those who had partaken of the sacrament, with the exception of such as were detained for breakfast, after filling their bottles with holy water, went home with a light heart.  A little before the mass had been finished, Father Philemy arrived; but, as Phaddy and Katty were then preparing to resave they could not at that moment give him a formal reception.  As soon, however, as communion was over, the cead millia failtha was repeated with the usual warmth, by both, and by all their immediate friends.  Breakfast was now laid in Katty’s best style, and with an originality of arrangement that scorned all precedent.  Two tables were placed, one after another, in the kitchen; for the other rooms were not sufficiently large to accommodate the company.  Father Philemy filled the seat of honor at the head of the table, with his back to an immense fire.  On his right hand sat Father Con; on his left, Phaddhy himself, “to keep the-clargy company;” and, in due succession after them, their friends and neighbors, each taking precedence according to the most scrupulous notions of respectability.  Beside Father Con sat “Pettier Malone,” a “young collegian,” who had been sent home from Maynooth to try his native air, for the recovery of his health, which was declining.  He arrived only a few minutes after Father Philemy, and was a welcome reinforcement to Phaddhy, in the arduous task of sustaining the conversation with suitable credit.

With respect to the breakfast, I can only say, that it was superabundant—­that the tea was as black as bog water—­that there were hen, turkey, and geese eggs—­plates of toast soaked, crust and crumb, in butter; and lest there might be a deficiency, one of the daughters sat on a stool at the fire, with her open hand, by way of a fire screen, across her red, half-scorched brows, toasting another plateful, and, to crown all, on each corner of the table was a bottle of whiskey.  At the lower board sat the youngsters, under the surveillance of Katty’s sister, who presided in that quarter.  When they were commencing breakfast, “Father Philemy,” said Katty, “won’t yer Rev’rence bless the mate (* food) if ye plase?”