What a dinner was that at Father Duff's! Was there ever before such a tumult of gladness, such Alleluias of resurrection, such hip! hip! hurrahs! such grand and noble speeches? The brave fellows had joined hands, and dragged the beaten hero from the battlefield, and set the laurels on his head. Then they all wanted to become my curates, for "Kilronan spells promotion now, you know." But I was too wise to make promises. As we were parting for the night, I heard Father Letheby say to Duff:—
"I am under everlasting obligations to you. But you shall have that boat money the moment it comes from the Insurance Office. And those sewing-machines are lying idle over there; they may be of use to you here."
"All right! Send them over, and we'll give you a clear receipt. Look here, Letheby, it's I who am under obligations to you. I had a lot of these dirty shekels accumulated since I was in Australia; and I'm ashamed to say it, I had three figures to my credit down there at the National Bank. If I died in that state, 't would be awful. Now I have a fairly easy conscience, thanks again to you!"
When I reached my room that ev—morning, I was shocked and startled to find the hour hand of my watch pointing steadily to two a. m. I rubbed my eyes. Impossible! I held the watch to my ear. It beat rhythmically. I shook my head. Then, as I sat down in a comfortable arm-chair, I held a long debate with myself as to whether it was my night prayers or my morning prayers I should say. I compromised with my conscience, and said them both together under one formula. But when I lay down to rest, but not to sleep, the wheels began to revolve rapidly. I thought of a hundred brilliant things which I could have said at the dinner table, but didn't. Such coruscations of wit, such splendid periods, were never heard before. Then my conscience began to trouble me. Two a.m.! two a.m.! two a. m.! I tried back through all my philosophers for an apology. Horace, my old friend, came back from the shades of Orcus.
"Dulce est desipere in loco,"
said he. Thank you, Flaccus! You were always ready:—
"Quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus,"
he cried, as he vanished into the shades. Then came Ovid, laurel-crowned, and began to sing:—
"Somne, quies rerum, placidissime somne deorum!"
But I dismissed him promptly. Then Seneca hobbled in, old usurer as he was, and said:—