“Denis,” said the uncle, “your father excuses me in regard of havin' to attend my cattle in the fair to-day. You won't be angry wid me, dear, for lavin' you now, as my road lies this other way. May the blessin' of God and his holy mother keep you till I see you agin! an', Denis, if you'd send me a scrape or two, lettin' me know what a good parish 'ud be worth; for I intend next spring to go wid little Barny to the Latin!”
This Denis promised to do; and after bidding him farewell, he and his friends—some on horseback and numbers on foot—set out on their journey; and as they proceeded through their own neighborhood, many a crowd was collected to get a sight of Denis O'Shaughnessy going to Maynooth.
It was one day in autumn, after a lapse of about two years, that the following conversation took place between a wealthy grazier from the neighboring parish, and one of our hero's most intimate, acquaintances. It is valuable only as it throws light upon Denis's ultimate situation in life, which, after all, was not what our readers might be inclined to expect.
“Why, then, honest man,” said Denis's friend, “that's a murdherin' fine dhrove o' bullocks you're bringin' to the fair?”
“Ay!” replied the grazier, “you may say that. I'm thinkin' it wouldn't be asay to aquil them.”
“Faix, sure enough. Where wor they fed, wid simmission?”
“Up in Teernahusshogue. Arrah, will you tell me what weddin' was that that passed awhile agone?”
“A son of ould Denis O'Shaughnessy's, God be merciful to his sowl!”
“Denis O'Shaughnessy! Is it him they called the 'Pigeon-house?' An' is it possible he's dead?”