“Susan, cream of my affections, I may venture to conjecture that the fact, or _factum_, of my being the subject of _fama clamosa_ today, has not yet reached your ears?” “Now, Denis, you are at your deep larning from the books again. Can't you keep your reading for them that undherstands it, an' not be spakin' so Englified to a simple girl like me?” “There is logic in that same, however. Do you know, Susan, I have often thought that, provided always you had resaved proper instruction, you would have made a first-rate classical scholar.” “So you tould me, Denis, the Sunday we exchanged the promise. But sure when you get me, I can larn it. Won't you tache me, Denis?” She turned her laughing eyes archly at him as she spoke, with a look of joy and affection: it was a look, indeed, that staggered for the moment every ecclesiastical resolution within him. He returned her glance, and ran over the features of her pure and beautiful countenance for some minutes; then, placing his open hand upon his eyes, he seemed buried in reflection. At length he addressed her:-- “Susan, I am thinking of that same Sunday evening on which we exchanged the hand-promise. I say, Susan,--_dimidium animae meae_--I am in the act of meditating upon it; and sorry am I to be compel--to be under the neces--to be reduced, I say--that is redact as in the larned langua--: in other words--or terms, indeed, is more elegant--in other terms, then, Susan, I fear that what I just now alluded to, touching the _fama clamosa_ which is current about me this day, will render that promise a rather premature one on both our parts. Some bachelors in my situation might be disposed to call it foolish, but I entertain a reverence--a veneration for the feelings of the feminine sex, that inclines me to use the mildest and most classical language in divulging the change that has taken place in my fortunes since I saw you last.” “What do you mane, Denis?” inquired Susan, suddenly ceasing to knit, and fixing her eyes upon him with a glance of alarm. “To be plain, Susy, I find that Maynooth is my destination. It has been arranged between my father and Docthor Finnerty, that I must become a laborer in the vineyard; that is, that I must become a priest, and cultivate the grape. It's a sore revelation to make to an amorous maiden; but destiny will be triumphant:-- _Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis_.” The poor girl suddenly laid down the work on which she had been engaged, her face became the color of ashes, and the reply she was about to make died upon her lips. She again resumed her stocking, but almost instantly laid it down a second time, and appeared wholly unable either to believe or comprehend what he said. “Denis,” she at length asked, “Did you say that all is to be over between us?”