Our readers must assist us with their own imaginations, and suppose the conversation to have passed very pleasantly, and the night, as well as the guests, to be somewhat far gone.  The principal part of the conversation was borne by the three clergymen, Captain Wilson, and Phaddy; that of the two nephews and Peter Malone ran in an under current of its own; and in the preceding part of the night, those who occupied the bottom of the table, spoke to each other rather in whispers, being too much restrained by that rustic bashfulness which ties up the tongues of those who feel that their consequence is overlooked among their superiors.  According as the punch circulated, however, their diffidence began to wear off; and occasionally an odd laugh or so might be heard to break the monotony of their silence.  The youngsters, too, though at first almost in a state of terror, soon commenced plucking each other; and a titter, or a suppressed burst of laughter, would break forth from one of the more waggish, who was put to a severe task in afterwards composing his countenance into sufficient gravity to escape detection, and a competent portion of chastisement the next day, for not being able to “behave himself with betther manners.”

During these juvenile breaches of decorum, Katty would raise her arm in a threatening attitude, shake her head at them, and look up at the clergy, intimating more by her earnestness of gesticulation than met the ear.  Several songs again went round, of which, truth to tell, Father Philomy’s were by far the best; for he possessed a rich, comic expression of eye, which, added to suitable ludicrousness of gesture, and a good voice, rendered him highly amusing to the company.  Father Con declined singing, as being decidedly serious, though he was often solicited.

“He!” said Father Philemy, “he has no more voice than a woolpack; but Con’s a cunning fellow.  What do you think, Captain Wilson, but he pretends to be too pious to sing, and gets credit for piety,—­not because he is devout, but because he has a bad voice; now, Con, you can’t deny it, for there’s not a man in the three kingdoms knows it better than myself; you sit there with a face upon you that might go before the Lamentations of Jeremiah the Prophet, when you ought to be as jovial as another.”

“Well, Father Philemy,” said Phaddhy, “as he won’t sing, may be, wid submission he’d examine Briney in his Latin, till his mother and I hear how’s he doing at it.”

“Ay, he’s fond of dabbling at Latin, so he may try him—­I’m sure I have no objection—­:  so, Captain, as I was telling you—­”

“Silence there below!” said Phaddhy to those at the lower end of the table, who were now talkative enough; “will yez whisht there till Father Con hears Briney a lesson in his Latin.  Where are you, Briney? come here, ma bouchal.”

But Briney had absconded when he saw that the tug of war was about to commence.  In a few minutes, however, the father returned, pushing the boy before him, who in his reluctance to encounter the ordeal of examination, clung to every chair, table, and person in his way, hoping that his restiveness might induce them to postpone the examination till another occasion.  The father, however, was inexorable, and by main force dragged him from all his holds, and, placed him before Father Con.