“Docthor,” said the uncle, pertinaciously adhering to the original question, “you have an opportunity of knowin’ what a good parish might be worth to a smart, active priest?  For the sake of a son of mine that I’ve some notion of—­”

“By the by, I wonder Denis is not here before now,” exclaimed his Reverence, lending a deaf ear to Mike O’Shaughnessy’s interrogatory.

Old Denis’s favorite topic had been started, and he accordingly launched out upon it with all the delight and ardor of a fond father.

“Now, Docthor dear, before us all—­an’ sure you know as well as I do, that we’re all friends together—­what’s your downright opinion of Denis?  Is he as bright as you tould me the other mornin’ he was?”

“Really, Denis O’Shaughnessy,” replied his Reverence, “it’s not pleasant to me to be pressed so often to eulogize a young gintleman of whose talents I have so frequently expressed my opinion.  Is not once sufficient for me to say what I’ve said concerning him?  But, as we are all present, I now say and declare, that my opinion of Denis O’Shaughnessy, jun., is decidedly peculiar—­decidedly.

“Come, girsha, keep basting the mutton, and never heed my boots—­turn it about and baste the back of it better.”

“God be thanked,” exclaimed the delighted father, “sure it’s comfort to hear that, any how—­afther all the pains and throuble we’ve taken wid him, to know it’s not lost.  Why, that boy was so smart, Docthor, that, may I never sin, when he went first to the Latin, but—­an’ this no lie, for I have it from his own lips—­when he’d look upon his task two or three times over night, he’d waken wid every word of it, pat off the book the next mornin’.  And how do you think he got it?  Why, the crathur, you see, used to dhrame that he was readin’ it off, and so he used to get it that way in his sleep!”

At this moment Darby Moran, Denis’s old foe entered, and his reception was cordial, and, if the truth were known, almost magnanimous on the part of Denis.

“Darby Moran,” said he, “not a man, barrin’ his Reverence here, in the parish we sit in, that I’m prouder to see on my flure—­give me your hand, man alive, and Mave and all of ye welcome him.  Everything of what you know is buried between us, and you’re bound to welcome him, if it was only in regard of the handsome way he spoke of our son this day—­here’s my own chair, Darby, and sit down.”

“Throth,” said Darby, after shaking hands with the priest and greeting the rest of the company, “the same boy no one could spake ill of; and, although we and his people were not upon the best footin’, still the sarra one o’ me but always gave him his due.”

“Indeed, I believe you, Darby,” said his father; “but are you comfortable?  Draw your chair nearer the fire—­the evenin’s gettin’ cowld.”

“I’m very well, Denis, I thank you;—­nearer the fire!  Faix, except you want to have me roasted along wid that shoulder of mutton and goose, I think I can’t go much nearer it.”