“I am, etc.,

“+ James M.”

When Father Finnerty read this letter, his countenance gradually assumed an expression of the most irresistible humor; nothing could be more truly comic than the significant look he directed toward each individual of the O’Shaughnessys, not omitting even the little boy who had basted the goose, whom he patted on the head with that mechanical abstraction resulting from the occurrence of something highly agreeable.  The cast of his features was now the more ludicrous, when contrasted with the rueful visage he presented on hearing the manner in which his character had been delineated by the Bishop.  At length he laid himself back in his chair, and putting his hands to his sides, fairly laughed out loudly for near five minutes.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Dionysius, Dionysius, but you are the simple and unsophisticated youth!  Oh, you bocaun of the wide earth, to come home with a long face upon you, telling us that you were rejected, and you not rejected.”

“Not rejected!—­not rejecet!—­not rejeckset!—­not raxjaxet!” they all exclaimed, attempting to pronounce the word as well as they could.

“For the sake of heaven above us, Docthor, don’t keep us in doubt one minute longer,” said old Denis.

“Follow me,” said the priest, becoming instantly grave, “follow me, Dionysius; follow me Denis More, and Brian, all follow—­follow me.  I have news for you!  My friends, we’ll be back instantly.”

They accordingly passed into another room, where they remained in close conference for about a quarter of an hour, after which they re-entered in the highest spirits.

“Come,” said Denis, “Pether, go over, abouchal, to Andy Bradagh’s for Larry Cassidy the piper—­fly like a swallow, Pether, an’ don’t come without him.  Mave, achora, all’s right.  Susy, you darlin’, dhry your eyes, avourneen, all’s right.  Nabors, friends—­fill, fill—­I say all’s right still.  My son’s not disgraced, nor he won’t be disgraced whilst I have a house over my head, or a beast in my stable.  Docthor, reverend Docthor, drink; may I never sin, but you must get merry an’ dance a ‘cut-along’ wid myself, when the music comes, and you must thrip the priest in his boots wid Susy here afther.  Excuse me, nabors—­Docthor, you won’t blame me, there’s both joy and sorrow in these tears.  I have had a good family of childhre, an’ a faithful wife; an’ Mave, achora, although time has laid his mark upon you as well as upon myself, and the locks are gray that wor once as black as a raven:  yet, Mave, I seen the day, an’ there’s many livin’ to prove it—­ay, Mave, I seen the day when you wor worth lookin’ at—­the wild rose of Lisbuie she was called, Docthor.  Well, Mave, I hope that my eyes may be closed by the hands I loved an’ love so well—­an’ that’s your own, agrab machree, an’ Denis’s.”

“Whisht, Denis asthore,” said Mave, wiping her eyes, “I hope I’ll never see that day.  Afther seein’ Denis here, what we all hope him to be, the next thing I wish is, that I may never live to see my husband taken away from me, acushla; no, I hope God will take me to himself before that comes.”