“And why not, father? Of what use all this good blood, of which I have been told so often and so much, if it will not enable a man to compete with the low-born peasant. And see how well this knapsack sits,” cried he, as he threw it on his shoulder. “I doubt if the Emperor's pack will be as pleasant to carry.” “So long as you haven't to carry a heavy heart, boy,” said Dalton, with deep emotion, “I believe no load is too much.” “If it were not for leaving you and the girls, I never could be happier, never more full of hope, father. Why should not _I_ win my way upward as Count Stephen has done? Loyalty and courage are not the birthright of only one of our name!” “Bad luck was all the birthright ever I inherited,” said the old man, passionately; “bad luck in everything I touched through life! Where others grew rich, I became a beggar; where they found happiness, _I_ met misery and ruin! But it's not of this I ought to be thinking now,” cried he, changing his tone. “Let us see, where are the girls?” And so saying, he entered a little kitchen which adjoined the room, and where, engaged in the task of preparing the dinner, was a girl, who, though several years older, bore a striking resemblance to the boy. Over features that must once have been the very type of buoyant gayety, years of sorrow and suffering had left their deep traces, and the dark circles around the eyes betrayed how deeply she had known affliction. Ellen Dalton's figure was faulty for want of height in proportion to her size, but had another and more grievous defect in a lameness, which made her walk with the greatest difficulty. This was the consequence of an accident when riding, a horse having fallen upon her and fractured the hip-bone. It was said, too, that she had been engaged to be married at the time, but that her lover, shocked by the disfigurement, had broken off the match, and thus made this calamity the sorrow of a life long. “Where's Kate?” said the father, as he cast a glance around the chamber. Ellen drew near, and whispered a few words in his ear. “Not in this dreadful weather; surely, Ellen, you didn't let her go out in such a night as this?” “Hush!” murmured she, “Frank will hear you; and remember, father, it is his last night with us.” “Could n't old Andy have found the place?” asked Daiton; and as he spoke, he turned his eyes to a corner of the kitchen, where a little old man sat in a straw chair peeling turnips, while he croned a ditty to himself in a low singsong tone; his thin, wizened features, browned by years and smoke, his small scratch wig, and the remains of an old scarlet hunting-coat that he wore, giving him the strongest resemblance to one of the monkeys one sees in a street exhibition. “Poor Andy!” cried Ellen, “he'd have lost his way twenty times before he got to the bridge.”