A conversation in that language then took place between them which reflected everlasting honor upon Connor, who, by the way, was one of Reilly's tenants, but himself and his progenitors were Protestants for three generations. He was a sharp, keen man, but generous and honorable, and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him. This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other persons there who spoke Irish as well as either of them. The dialogue, however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor's wish that it should be so. He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about Willy Reilly, to which he replied that he did not, only by all accounts he had left the country. This, indeed, was the general opinion. “This blockhead,” said Connor, “knows nothing about him, only what he has heard; he's a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of Sligo; come on.” They passed onwards, and Reilly resumed his journey and his song. On reaching the farmer's house where he and the bishop lodged, the unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed, at the appearance of a stranger, and was about to reprove their host for his carelessness in admitting such persons. “What do you want here, my good man?” inquired the farmer. “Do you wish to say anything to me?” asked the bishop. “A few words,” replied Reilly; but, on consideration, he changed his purpose of playing off a good-humored joke on his lordship and the farmer. For the melancholy prelate he felt the deepest compassion and respect, and apprehended that any tampering with his feelings might be attended with dangerous consequences to his intellect. He consequently changed his purpose, and added, “My lord, don't you know me?” The bishop looked at him, and it was not without considerable scrutiny that he recognized him. In the meantime the farmer, who had left the room previous to this explanation, and who looked upon Reilly as an impostor or a spy, returned with a stout oaken cudgel, exclaiming, “Now, you damned desaver, I will give you a jacketful of sore bones for comin' to pry about here. This gintleman is a doctor; three of my family are lying ill of faver, and that you may catch it I pray gorra this day! but if you won't catch that, you'll catch this,” and he whirled the cudgel about his head, and most unquestionably it would have descended on Reilly s cranium were it not for the bishop, who interposed and prevented the meditated violence. “Be quiet, Kelly,” said he, “be quiet, sir; this is Mr. Reilly disguised.” “Troth, I must look closely at him first,” replied Kelly; “who knows but he's imposin' upon you, Dr. Wilson?” Kelly then looked closely into his face, still holding a firm grip of the cudgel. “Why, Kelly,” said Reilly, “what the deuce are you at? Don't you know my voice at least?”