This allusion to old Denis occasioned his absence to be noticed.

“Can nobody tell where Denis More is?” said the wife; “my gracious, but it’s quare he should be from about the place this day, any way.  Brian, mavourneen, did you see him goin’ any where?

“No,” said Brian, “but I see him comin’ down there carryin’ some aitables in a basket.”

Brian had scarcely ended when his father entered, bearing beef and mutton, as aforesaid, both of which he deposited upon the kitchen table, with a jerk of generosity and pride, that seemed to say, as he looked significantly at Denny—­and, in fact, as he did say afterwards—­“Never spare, Dinny; ate like a gintleman; make yourself as bright an’ ginteel as you can; you won’t want for beef an’ mutton!”

Old Denis now sat down, and, after wiping the perspiration from his forehead, took the glass of poteen which the wife handed him:  he held it between his finger and thumb for a moment, glanced around him upon the happy faces present, then laid it down again, fixed his eyes upon his son, and cast them once more upon the company.  The affectionate father’s heart was full; his breast heaved, and the large tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.  By a strong effort, however, he mastered his emotion; and taking the glass again, he said in broken voice:—­

“Neighbors!—­God bless yez!—­God bless yez!—­Dinny—­Dinny—­I”—­

The last words he pronounced with difficulty; and drinking off his glass, set it down empty upon the table.  He then rose up, and shook his neighbors by the hand—­

“I am,” said he, “a happy man, no doubt of it, an’ we’re all happy; an’ it’s proud any father might be to hear the account of his son, that I did of mine, as I was convoyin’ Father Finnerty a piece o’ the way home.  ‘Your son,’ says he, when he took that bit of a coult out o’ my hand, ‘will be an honor to you all.  I tell you,’ says he, ’that he’s nearly as good a scholar, as myself, an’ spakes Latin not far behind my own; an’ as for a pracher,’ says he, ’I can tell you that he’ll be hard farther nor any man I know.’  He tould me them words wid his own two lips.  An’ surely, neighbors,” said he, relapsing into strong feeling, “you can’t blame me for bein’ both proud and happy of sich a son.”

My readers, from the knowledge already given them of Denny’s character, are probably disposed to think that his learning was thrown out on this occasion in longer words and more copious quotations than usual.  This, however, was not the case; so far from that, he never displayed less pedantry, nor interspersed his conversation with fewer scraps of Latin.  In fact, the proceedings of the day appeared to affect him with a tone of thought, decidedly at variance with the exuberance of joy experienced by the family.  He was silent, moody, and evidently drawn by some secret reflection from the scene around him.  He held a book in his hand, into which he looked from time to time, with the air of a man who balances some contingency in his mind.  At length, when the conversation of those who were assembled became more loud and boisterous, he watched an opportunity of gliding out unperceived; having accomplished this, he looked cautiously about him, and finding himself not observed, he turned his steps to a glen which lay about half a mile below his father’s house.