Owen Connor, on finding that he was na longer pursued, stood to reconnoitre the enemy:—­

“Denis Oge,” he shouted back, “be on to Maynooth as fast as possible, except you wish to have my poor child left fatherless entirely.  Go way, an’ my blessin’ be along wid you; but let there be never another word about that business while you live.”

“Father,” said Denis, “I’m scandalized at your conduct on this dignified occasion.  I am also angry with Brian and the rest of you.  Did you not observe that the decent man was advanced in liquor?  I would have told you so at once, were it not that he was present while I spoke.  Did I not give you as strong a hint as possible?  Did I not tell you that ’I spoke significantly?’ Now hear me.  Take the first opportunity of being reconciled to Owen Connor.  Be civil to him; for I assure you he esteems me very highly.  Be also kind to his daughter, who is an excellent girl; but I repeat it, her father esteems me highly.”

“Does he think highly of you, Denis?”

“I have said so,” he replied.

“Then, throth, we’re sorry for what has happened, poor man.  But the never a one o’ me, Denis, saw the laste sign of liquor about him.  Throth, we will make it up wid him, thin.  An’ we’ll be kind to his daughter, too, Denis.”

“Then as a proof that you will follow my advice, I lay it on you as a duty, to let me know how they are, whenever you write to me.”

“Throth, we will, Denis;—­indeed will we.  Come in now, dear; this is the last night you’re to be wid us, an’ they’re all missin! you in the house.”

On that night no person slept in Denis O’Shaughnessy’s, except our hero, and his mother and sisters.  As morning approached a heaviness of spirits prevailed among the family, which of course was not felt by any except his immediate relations.  The more distant friends, who remained with them for the night, sang and plied the bottle with a steadiness which prevented them from feeling the want of rest.  About six o’clock, breakfast was ready, Denis dressed, and every arrangement made for his immediate departure.  His parents—­his brothers, and his sisters were all in tears, and he himself could master his emotions with great difficulty.  At length the hour to which the family of our candidate had long looked forward, arrived, and Denis rose to depart for Maynooth.  Except by the sobs and weeping, the silence was unbroken when he stood up to bid them farewell.

The first he embraced was his eldest brother, Brian:  “Brian,” said he, but he could not proceed—­his voice failed him:  he then extended his hand, but Brian clasped him in tis arms—­kissed his beloved brother, and wept with strong grief; even then there was not a dry eye in the house.  The parting with his other brothers was equally tender—­they wept loudly and bitterly, and Denis joined in their grief.  Then came his sisters, who, one by one, hung upon him, and sobbed as if he had been dead.  The grief of his youngest sister, Susan, was excessive.  She threw her arms about his neck, and said she would not let him go; Denis pressed her to his heart, and the grief which he felt, seemed to penetrate his very soul.