“Denis,” said his friend, “it ill becomes you to spake first.  ’Tis I that ought to do that, and to do it long ago too; but you see, somehow, so long as it was to be decided by blows between the families, I’d never give in.  Not but that I might do so, but my sons, Denis, wouldn’t hear of it.  Throth, I’m glad of this, and so will they too; for only for the honor and glory of houldin’ out, we might be all friends through other long ago.  And I’ll tell you what, we couldn’t do better, the two factions of us, nor join and thrash them Haigneys that always put between us.”

“No, Darby, I tell you, I bear no ill-will, no bad thoughts agin any born Christian this day, and I won’t hear of that.  Come to us about five o’clock:  we’re to have Father Finnerty, and Father Molony, his curate:  all friends, man, all friends; and Denny, God guard him this day, will be home, afther passin’ the Bishop, about four o’clock.”

“I always thought that gorsoon would come to somethin’.  Why it was wondherful how he used to discoorse upon the chapel-green, yourself and himself:  but he soon left you behind.  And how he sealed up poor ould Dixon, the parish dark’s mouth, at Barny Boccagh’s wake.  God rest his soul!  It was talkin’ about the Protestant church they wor.  ‘Why,’ said Misther Denis, ’you ould termagent, can you tell me who first discovered your church?’ The dotin’ ould crathur began of hummin’, and hawin’, and advisin’ the boy to have more sense.  ‘Come,’ said he, ’you ould canticle, can you answer?  But for fear you can’t, I’ll answer for you.  It was the divil discovered it, one fine mornin’ that he went out to get an appetite, bein’ in delicate health.’  Why, Denis, you’d tie all that wor present wid a rotten sthraw.”

“Darby, I ax your pardon over agin for what came between us; and I see now betther than I did, that the fault of it was more mine nor yours.  You’ll be down surely about five o’clock?”

“I must go and take this beard off o’ me, and clane myself; and I may as well do that now:  but I’ll be down, never fear.”

“In throth the boy was always bright!—­ha, ha, ha!—­and he sobered Dixon?”

“Had him like a judge in no time.”

“Oh, he would do it—­he could do that, at all times.  God be wid you, Darby, till I see you in the evenin’.

“Bannaght lhath, Denis, an’ I’m proud we’re as we ought to be.”

About four o’clock, the expected guests began to assemble at Denis’s; and about the same hour one might perceive Susan O’Shaughnessy running out to a stile a little above the house, where she stood for a few minutes, with her hand shadingher eyes, looking long and intensely towards the direction from which she expected her brother to return.  Hitherto, however, he could not be discovered in the distance, although scarcely five minutes elapsed during the intervals of her appearance at the stile to watch him.  Some horsemen she did notice; but after straining her eyes eagerly and anxiously, she was enabled only to report, with a dejected air, that they were their own friends coming from a distant part of the parish, to be present at the dinner.  At length, after a long and eager look, she ran in with an exclamation of delight, saying—­