Dunn quickly saw the change that had passed over him, and cutting the wire of a champagne flask, he filled out a foaming tumbler of the generous wine, saying, “Drink this to your own good health, father,--to the man whose wise teachings and prudent maxims have made his son a foremost figure in the age, and who has no higher pride than to own where he got his earliest lessons.” “Is it true, Davy,--are them words true?” asked the old man, trembling with eagerness. “As true as that I sit here.” And Dunn drained his glass as he spoke. The old man, partly wearied by the late sitting, partly confused by all the strange tidings he had heard, drooped his head upon his chest and breathed heavily, muttering indistinctly a few broken and incoherent words. Lost in his own reveries, Dunn had not noticed this drowsy stupor, when suddenly the old man said,-- “Davy,--are you here, Davy?” “Yes, father, here beside you.” “What a wonderful dream I had, Davy!” he continued; “I dreamed you were made a lord, and that the Queen sent for you, and I was looking everywhere, up and down, for the fine cloak with the ermine all over it that you had to wear before her Majesty; sorra a one of me could find it at all; at last I put my hand on it, and was going to put it on your shoulders, when what should it turn out but a shroud!--ay, a shroud!” “You are tired, father; these late hours are bad for you. Finish that glass of wine, and I'll say good-night.” “I wonder what sign a shroud is, Davy?” mumbled the old man, pertinaciously adhering to the dream. “A coffin, they say, is a wedding.” “It is not a vigorous mind like yours, father, that lends faith to such miserable superstitions.” “That is just what they are not. Dreams is dreams, Davy.” “Just so, sir; and, being dreams, have neither meaning nor consistency.” “How do you know that more than me? Who told you they were miserable superstitions? I call them warnings,--warnings that come out of our own hearts; and they come to us in our sleep just because that's the time our minds is not full of cares and troubles, but is just taking up whatever chances to cross them. What made Luke Davis dream of a paycock's feather the night his son was lost at sea? Answer me that if you can.” “These are unprofitable themes, father; we only puzzle ourselves when we discuss them. Difficult as they are to believe, they are still harder to explain.” “I don't want to explain them,” said the old man, sternly, for he deemed that the very thought of such inquiry had in it something presumptuous. “Well, father,” said Dunn, rising, “I sincerely trust you will sleep soundly now, and be disturbed by none of these fancies. I must hasten away. I leave for Belfast by the early train, and have a mass of letters to answer before that.” “When am I to see you again, Davy?” asked the old man, eagerly. “Very soon, I hope, sir; as soon as I can, of that you may be certain,” said he, cordially.