of a mind learnedly engaged in arranging the vast stores of knowledge with which it was so abundantly stocked; his moody picture of the bishop’s brow; his reflection that he was going before so sacred a person, as a candidate for the church, with his heart yet redolent of earthly affection for Susan Connor; his apprehension that the bishop’s spiritual scent might sagaciously smell it out, were all put down by the family to the credit of uncommon learning, which, as his mother observed truly, “often makes men do quare things.”  His embarrassments, however, inasmuch as they were ascribed by them to wrong causes, endeared him more to their hearts than ever.  Because he spoke little, neither the usual noise nor bustle of a large family disturbed the silence of the house; every word was uttered that evening in a low tone, at once expressive of tenderness and respect.  The family supper was tea, in compliment to Denis; and they all partook of it with him.  Nothing humbles the mind, and gives the natural feelings their full play, so well as a struggle in life, or the appearance of its approach.

“Denis,” said the father, “the time will come when we won’t have you at all among us; but, thank goodness, you’ll be in a betther place.”

Denis heard him not, and consequently made no reply.

“They say Maynewth’s a tryin’ place, too,” he continued, “an’ I’d be sorry to see him pulled down to anatomy, like some of the scarecrows that come qut of it.  I hope you’ll bear it betther.”

“Do you speak to me?” said Denis, awaking out of a reverie.

“I do, sir,” replied the father; and as he uttered the words the son perceived that his eyes were fixed upon him with an expression of affectionate sorrow and pride.

The youth was then in a serious mood, free from all the dominion of that learned mania under which he had so frequently signalized himself:  the sorrow of his father, and a consciousness of the deep affection and unceasing kindness which he had ever experienced from him, joined to a recollection of their former friendly disputes and companionship, touched Denny to the quick.  But the humility with which he applied to him the epithet sir, touched him most.  What! thought he—­ought my affectionate father to be thrown to such a distance from a son, who owes everything to his love and goodness!  The thought of his stooping so humbly before him smote the boy’s heart, and the tears glistened in his eyes.

“Father,” said he, “you have been kind and good to me, beyond my deserts; surely then I cannot bear to hear you address me in that manner, as if we were both strangers.  Nor while I am with you, shall any of you so address me.  Remember that I am still your son and their brother.”

The natural affection displayed in this speech soon melted the whole family into tears—­not excepting Denis himself, who felt that grief which we experience when about to be separated for the first time from those we love.