A poor old widow, who was distantly related to them, came upwards of four miles with two or three score of eggs, together with a cock and hen; the eggs for his own use, and the latter for breeding in Maynooth.  “Avourneen, Misther O’Shaughnessy,” said she, in broken English, “when you ate out all the eggs, maybe you could get a sonsy little corner about the collegian that you’re goin’ to larn to be a priest in, an’ put them both into it; “—­pointing at the same time to the cock and hen—­“an’ whishper,” she continued, in a low friendly voice, “if you could get a weeshy wisp o’ sthraw, an slip it undher your own bed, it would make a nest for them, an’ they’d lay an egg for your breakfast all days in the year.  But, achora, don’t let them be widout a nest egg; an’ whishper—­maybe you’d breed a clackin’ out o’ them, that you might sell.  Sure they’d help to buy duds of cloes for you; or you might make presents of the crathurs to the blessed an’ holy collegian himself.  Wouldn’t it be good to have him an your side?—­He’d help to make a gintleman of you, any way.  Faix, sure he does it for many, they say.  An’ whishper—­the breed, avourneen, is good; an’ I’m not afeard to say that there never was sich a chicken in the whole collegian, as the ould cock himself.  He’s the darlin’ all out, an’ can crow so stoutly, that it bates the world.  Sure his comb’s a beauty to look at, the darlin’; an’ only it’s to yourself, an’ in regard of the blessed place he’s goin’ to, I wouldn’t part wid him to nobody whatsomever, at all, good or bad.”

The most original gift of all was a purse, formed of a small bladder, ingeniously covered with silk.  It was given to him by his uncle, as a remembrance of him, in the first place; and secondly, for a more special purpose.

“This will sarve you, sir,” said his uncle, “an’ I’ll tell you how:  if you want to smuggle in a sup of good whiskey—­as of coorse you will, plase goodness—­why this houlds exactly a pint, an’ is the very thing for it.  The sorra one among them will ever think of searchin’ your purse, at least for whiskey.  Put it in your pocket, Misther Dionmsis; an’ I’d take it as a great kindness if you’d write me a scrape or two of the pen, mentionin’ what a good parish ’ud be worth:  you’ll soon be able to tell me, for I’ve some notion myself of puttin’ Barny to Latin.”

Denis was perfectly aware of the honest warmth of heart with which these simple tokens of esteem were presented to him; and young as he was, his knowledge of their habits and prejudices prevented him from disappointing them by a refusal.  He consequently accepted everything offered him, appropriated to himself whatever was suitable to his wants, converted the remainder into pocket-money, and, of course, kept his conscience void of offence toward them all:  a state of Christian virtue which his refusal of any one gift would have rendered difficult.