“Very well, Father Con, granting all that, it's no sin to repate a good turn you know. Not a word I'll hear, yer Reverence--one tumbler along with myself, if it was only for ould times.” He then filled Father Con's tumbler with his own hand, in a truly liberal spirit. “Arrah, Father Con, do you remember the day we had the leapin'-match, and the bout at the shoulder-stone?” “Indeed, I'll not forget it, Phaddhy.” “And it's yourself that may say that; but I bleeve I rubbed the consate off of your Reverence--only that's betune ourselves, you persave.” “You did win the palm, Phaddhy, I'll not deny it; but you are the only man that ever bet me at either of the athletics.' “And I'll say this for yer Reverence, that you are one of the best and most able-bodied gintlemen I ever engaged with. Ah! Father Con, I'm past all that now--but no matter, here's yer Reverence's health, and a shake. hands; Father Philomy, yer health, docthor: yer strange Reverence's health--Captain Wilson, not forgetting you, sir: Mr. Pettier, yours; and I hope to see you soon with the robes upon you, and to be able to prache us a good sarmon. Parrah More--_wus dha lauv_ (* give me yer hand), you steeple you; and I haven't the smallest taste of objection to what Father Philemy hinted at--yell obsarve. Kitty, you thief of the world, where are you? Your health, avourneen; come here, and give us your fist, Katty: bad manners to me if I could forget you afther all;--the best crathur, your Reverence, under the sun, except when yer Reverence puts yer _comedher_ on her at confession, and then she's a little, sharp or so, not a doubt of it: but no matther, Katty ahagur, you do it all for the best. And Father Philemy, maybe it's myself didn't put the thrick upon you in the Maragy More, about Katty's death--ha, ha, ha! Jack M'Craner, yer health--all yer healths, and yer welcome here, if you war seven times as many. Briney, where are you, ma bouchal? Come up and shake hands wid yer father, as well as another--come up, acushla, and kiss me. Ah, Briney, my poor fellow, ye'll never be the cut of a man yer father was; but no matther, avourneen, ye'll be a betther man, I hope; and God knows you may asy be that, for Father Philemy, I'm not what I ought to be, yer Reverence; however, I may mend, and will, maybe, before a month of Sundays goes over me: but, for all that, Briney, I hope to see the day when you'll be sitting an ordained priest at my own table; if I once saw that, I could die contented--so mind yer larning, acushla, and, his Reverence here will back you, and make inthorest to get you into the college. Musha, God pity them crathurs at the door--aren't they gone yet? Listen to them coughin', for fraid we'd forget them: and throth and they won't be forgot this bout any how--Katty, avourneen, give them every one, big and little, young and ould, their skinful--don't lave a wrinkle in them; and see, take one of them bottles--the crathurs, they're starved sitting there all night in