“I’m sarry for it too,” replied Denis, who was every whit as superstitious as his father; “and to atone for my error, I desire you will sprinkle me all over with it—­clothes and all.”

The father complied with this, and Denis was setting out, when his mother exclaimed, “Blessed be them above us, Denis More!  Look at the boy’s legs!  There’s luck!  Why one of his stockin’s has the wrong side out, and it’s upon the right leg too!  Well, this will be a fortunate day for you, Denis, any way; the same thing never happened myself, but something good followed it.”

This produced a slight conflict between Denis’s personal vanity and superstition; but on this occasion superstition prevailed:  he even felt his spirits considerably elevated by the incident, mounted the mare, and after jerking himself once or twice in the saddle, to be certain that all was right, he touched her with the spur, and set out to be examined by the Bishop, exclaiming as he went, “Let his lordship take care that I don’t make a ludibrium of him.”

The family at that moment all came to the door, where they stood looking after, and admiring him, until he turned a corner of the road, and left their sight.

Many were the speculations entered into during his absence, as to the fact, whether or not he would put down the bishop in the course of the examination; some of them holding that he could do so if he wished; but others of them denying that it was possible for him, inasmuch as he had never received holy orders.

The day passed, but not in the usual way, in Denis More O’Shaughnessy’s.  The females of the family were busily engaged in preparing for the dinner, to which Father Finnerty, his curate, and several of their nearest and wealthiest friends had been invited; and the men in clearing out the stables and other offices for the horses of the guests.  Pride and satisfaction were visible on every face, and that disposition to cordiality and to the oblivion of everything unpleasant to the mind, marked, in a prominent manner, their conduct and conversation.  Old Denis went, and voluntarily spoke to a neighbor, with whom he had not exchanged a word, except in anger, for some time.  He found him at work in the field, and, advancing with open hand and heart, he begged his pardon for any offence he might have given him.

“My son,” said he, “is goin’ to Maynooth; and as he is a boy that we have a good right to be proud of, and as our friends are comin’ to ate their dinner wid us to-day, and as—­as my heart is to full to bear ill-will against any livin’ sowl, let alone a man that I know to be sound at the heart, in spite of all that has come between us—­I say, Darby, I forgive you, and I expect pardon for my share of the offence.  There’s the hand of an honest man—­let us be as neighbors ought to be, and not divided into parties and factions against one another, as we have been too long.  Take your dinner wid us to-day, and let us hear no more about ill-will and unkindness.”