Denis had been their pride, the privileged person among them—­the individual whose talents were to throw lustre upon a nameless and unknown family; the future priest—­the embryo preacher of eminence—­the resistless controversialist—­the holy father confessor—­and, perhaps, for with that vivacity of imagination peculiar to the Irish, they could scarcely limit his exaltation—­perhaps the bishop of a whole diocese.  Had not the Lord Primate himself been the son of as humble a man?  “And who knows,” said his youngest and fairest sister, who of all the family was most devoted to him, “but Dinny might yet be a primate?” And as she spoke, the tear of affection, pride, and enthusiasm glistened in her eye.  Denis, therefore, had been much, even in his youth, to their simple hearts, and far more to their hopes and expectations, than he was in all the pride of his petty polemics; but when he, before whose merits, both real and imaginary, every heart among them bowed as before the shrine of a tutelar saint, turned round, ere the destined eminence he aimed at was half attained, and laid upon their fervent affection the icy chain of pride and worldly etiquette—­the act was felt keenly and unexpectedly as the acute spasm of some sudden malady.  The father and mother, however, both, defended him with great warmth; and by placing his motives in that point of view which agreed best with their children’s prejudices, they eventually succeeded in reconciling his brothers and sisters in some degree to the necessity of adopting the phraseology he proposed—­that they might treat him with suitable respect in the eye of the world.

“It’s proud of him we ought to be,” said his father, “and delighted that he has sich a risin’ spirit; an’ sure the more respect is paid to him the greater credit he will be to ourselves.”

“But, sure he has no right,” said his eldest brother, “to be settin’ up for a gentleman till he’s priested.  I’m willin’ enough to sir him, only that it cuts me more than I’ll say, to think that I must be callin’ the boy that I’d spill the dhrop of my blood for, afther I the manner of a sthranger; and besides,” he added, “I’m not clear but the neighbors will be passin’ remarks upon us, as they did when you and he used to be arguin’.”

“I’d like to see them that ’ud turn it into a joke,” said his father; “I would let them know that Dinis O’Shaughnessy’s dog is neither to be made or meddled wid in a disrespectful manner, let alone his son.  We are not widout friends and connections that ’ud take our quarrel upon them in his defince, if there was a needcessity for it; but there will not, for didn’t my heart lep the other day to my throat wid delight, when I saw Larry Neil put his hand to his hat to him, comin’ up the Esker upon the mare; and may I never do an ill turn, if he didn’t answer the bow to Larry, as if he was the priest of the parish already.  It’s the wondher of the world how he picks up a jinteel thing any how, an’ ever did, since he was the hoith o’ that.”