“I like the old Feld!” cried Hans, enthusiastically. “He would teach the boy submission, and self-reliance, too,--lessons that, however wide apart they seem, go ever hand in hand; an old warrior that has trained his bold nature to habits of obedience in many a year of trial and injustice, unfriended and alone, with nothing but his stout heart and good sword to sustain him. I like that Feld, and would gladly pledge him in a glass of Steinberger!” “And you shall, my little man,” said Dalton, waking up, and catching the last words of Hanserl's speech. “The old Count was kind to Frank, and I 'll drink his health this night, with all the honors. Read him the letter, Nelly. Show him how old Stephen received the boy. That's blood for you!--a true Dalton!” Hanserl stared from father to daughter, and back again, without speaking; while Nelly, blushing deeply, held down her head, without a word. “His letter to us was dry enough. But what matter for that? He never wrote a line,--maybe, did n't speak a word of English for upwards of forty years. You can't expect a man to have the 'elegant correspondent' at his fingers' ends after that space of time. But the heart!--that's the main point, Hans. The heart is in the right place. Read that bit over again, Nelly; I forget the words he said.” “Oh, no, papa. Hans has Just beard it all, from beginning to end; and you know we have so much to do. Here's Lady Hester's note, and here's one from the Prince, still unopened.” “Ay, to be sure. I 'm certain you 'll excuse me, Hans,” said Dalton, putting on his spectacles, while he assumed a manner of condescending urbanity very puzzling to the poor dwarf. “Why, Nelly dear, this is French. Give me that note of Lady Hester's, and do you take this. Oh, by my conscience, I 'm no better off now! The devil such writing as this ever I seen! It's all 'm's' and 'w's' every bit of it You'll keep them both for the evening, my dear. Hans will dine with us, and I 'll go out to look for a bit of fish, and see if I can find another pleasant fellow to round off the table with us. God be with old Kilmurray M'Mahon, where I could have had twenty as easy as two, and each of them a good warrant for four bottles, besides! Is n't it a droll world?” muttered he, as he took down his hat and descended the stairs. “A good dinner, and only a cripple for company! Faix! I 'm like the chap in the Bible, that had to ask the beggars and the blaguards when he could n't get better.” And with this very wise reflection, Peter Dalton hummed a Jig to himself as he took his way to the fish-market. CHAPTER V. A HAPPY DAY FOR PETER DALTON