ened intently to the explanation which he gave of
one of them. Nicholas was a long, thin lad, with melancholy grey eyes
and a square forehead, whose capacity his grandfather had held in some
esteem, since it had been discovered, years ago, that "the spalpeen
could make out an account for four sets of shoes, and half a stone of
three-inch holdfasts, and a dozen of staples, and two gallon of the
crathur, and allow for a hundredweight of ould iron, all in his head,
and right to a farthin'." Now the melancholy eyes darkened and
brightened with excitement as Mr. Polymathers discoursed of right lines
and angles and circles, and expounded the mysterious signification of
certain Ah Bay Says. And he had thenceforward an unweariable pupil in
Nicholas, companied, albeit with less ardent zeal, and at a slower rate
of progress, by his elder brother, Dan.

More general interest, however, continued to be taken in the stranger's
classical attainments. Everybody--the O'Beirnes themselves, their
neighbours in the cabin-row close by, now long since an untraceable
ruin, and the people of Lisconnel proper, a couple of miles further
on--felt uplifted by the residence among them of a man, who they boasted
would talk Latin to you as soon as look at you. But as we never enjoy
our own happiness fully until it has been looked at through other men's
envious eyes, they could not here remain content with simply possessing
this privilege, or even with dilating upon it to their less favoured
friends down below and down beyant. They longed to make a parade of it,
to give a demonstration of it. And the method of doing so which they
came to consider most desirable was the bringing about of a conversation
in Latin between Mr. Polymathers and Father Rooney, the Parish Priest.
For if that took place they could easily imagine his Reverence riding
home to report in the Town what a wonderful great scholar entirely they
had stopping above at Lisconnel. Moreover, the conversation itself would
be a rael fine thing to have the hearing of. Terence Kilfoyle, for
instance, said that it would be as good as a Play, which, as he had
never seen one, was to entertain unbounded expectations. And at last,
after they had wished the wish for some weeks, a prospect of its
fulfilment came into sight together with Father Rooney's cream-coloured
pony jogging along through the light of a fiery-zoned July sunset, in
which Mr. Polymathers was basking by the O'Beirnes' door. In those