Denis, during these pleasant observations of the priest, sat silent, with a countenance pale and apparently dejected.  When his mother had filled his plate, he gently put it away from him; but poured out a little spirits and water, which he drank.

“I cannot eat a morsel,” said he; “mother, don’t press me, it’s impossible.  We are all assembled here—­friends, neighbors, and relations—­I’ll not disguise the fact—­but the truth is, I have been badly treated this day; I have been, in the most barefaced manner, rejected by the Bishop, and a nephew of Father Molony’s elected in my place.”

The effect which this disclosure produced upon the company present, especially upon his own family, utterly defies description.  His father hastily laid down his glass, and his eyes opened to the utmost stretch of their lids; his mother let a plate fall which she was in the act of handing to one of her daughters, who was about to help a poor beggar at the door; all convivial enjoyment was suspended; the priest laid down his knife and fork, and fixed his large eyes upon Denis, with his mouth full; his young sister, Susan, flew over to his side, and looked intensely into his countenance for an explanation of what he meant, for she had not properly understood him.

“Rejected!” exclaimed the priest—­“rejected!  Young man, I am your spiritual superior, and I command you, on this occasion, to practise no jocularity whatsoever—­I lay it upon you as a religious duty to be serious and candid, to speak truth, and inform us at once whether what you have advanced be true or not?”

“I wish,” said Denis, “that it was only jocularity on my part; but I solemnly assure you all that it is not.  The Bishop told me that I suffered myself to be misled as to my qualifications for entrance; he says it will take a year and a half’s hard study to enable me to matriculate with a good grace.  I told him that your Reverence examined me, and said I was well prepared; and he said to me, in reply, that your Reverence was very little of a judge as to my fitness.”

“Very well,” said the priest, “I thank his lordship; ’tis true, I deserved that from him; but it can’t be helped.  I see, at all events, how the land lies.  Denis O’Shaughnessy, I pronounce you to be, in the first place, an extremely stultified and indiscreet young man; and, in the next place, as badly treated and as oppressed a candidate for Maynooth as entered it.  I pronounce you, in the face of the world, right well prepared for it; but I see now who is the spy of the diocese—­oh, oh, thank you, Misther Molony—­I now remimber, that he is related to his lordship through the beggarly clan of the M——­’s.  But wait a little; if I have failed here, thank Heaven I have interest in the next diocese, the Bishop of which is my cousin, and we will yet have a tug for it.”