everence, anyhow?"

"I am really too much oppressed with relaxation," said Denis, "to return
thanks in that florid style which would become my pretensions. I cannot,
however, but thank Father Finnerty for his ingenious and learned toast,
which does equal honor to his head and heart, and I might superadd,
to his intellects also; for in drinking toasts, my friends, I always
elaborate a distinction between strength of head and strength of
intellect. I now thank you all for having in so liberal a manner drunk
my health; and in grateful return, I request you will once more fill
your utensils, and learnedly drink--long life and a mitre to the
Reverend Father Finnerty, of the Society of St. Dominick, Doctor of
Divinity and Parochial Priest of this excellent parish!--_Propino tibi
salutem, Doctor doctissime, reverendissime, et sanctissime; nec non
omnibus amicis hic congregatis!_"

The priest's eye, during this speech, twinkled with humor; he saw
clearly that Denis thoroughly understood the raillery of his toast, and
that the compliment was well repaid. On this subject he did not wish,
however, to proceed further, and his object now was, that the evening
should pass off as agreeably as possible.

Next morning Father Finnerty paid Denis a timely visit, having first, as
he had been directed, sent home the colt a little after day-break. They
then took an early breakfast, and after about half an hour's further
deliberation, the priest, old Denis, and his son--the last mounted upon
the redoubtable colt--proceeded to the Bishop's residence. His lordship
had nearly finished breakfast, which he took in his study; but as he
was engaged with his brother, the barrister, who slept at his house the
night before, in order to attend a public meeting on that day, he
could not be seen for some time after they arrived. At length they were
admitted. The Right Reverend Doctor was still seated at the breakfast
table, dressed in a morning-gown of fine black stuff, such as the
brothers of the Franciscan order of monks usually wear, to which order
he belonged. He wore black silk stockings, gold knee-buckles to his
small-clothes, a rich ruby ring upon his finger, and a small gold cross,
net with brilliants, about his neck. This last was not usually visible;
but as he had not yet dressed for the day, it hung over his vest. He
sat, or rather lolled back in a stuffed easy chair, one leg thrown
indolently over the other. Though not an old man, he wore po