e other, sir, and with this addition, too, that
it makes proselytes," said she, gravely; "my father's theory finds fewer
followers."

"And you not one of them?" said MacNaghten, rapidly; while he fixed a
look of shrewd inquiry on her.

"Assuredly not," replied she, in a calm and collected tone.

"By Jove, I could have sworn to it," cried he, with a burst of
enthusiastic delight. "There, Fagan, you see Miss Polly takes my side,
after all."

"I have not said so," rejoined she, gravely. "Gain and waste are nearer
relatives than they suspect."

"I must own that I have never known but one of the family," said Dan,
with one of those hearty laughs which seemed to reconcile him to any
turn of fortune.

Fagan all this time was ill at ease and uncomfortable; the topic annoyed
him, and he gladly took occasion to change it by an allusion to the
wine.

"And yet there are people who will tell you not to drink champagne for
breakfast," exclaimed Dan, draining his glass as he spoke; "as if any
man could be other than better with this glorious tipple. Miss Polly,
your good health, though it seems superfluous to wish you anything."

She bowed half coldly to the compliment, and Fagan added hurriedly, "We
are at least contented with our lot in life, Mr. MacNaghten."

"Egad, I should think you were, Tony, and no great merit in the
resignation, after all. Put yourself in my position, however,--fancy
yourself Dan MacNaghten for one brief twenty-four hours. Think of
a fellow who began the world--ay, and that not so very long ago
either--with something over five thousand a-year, and a good large sum
in bank, and who now, as he sits here, only spends five shillings
when he writes his name on a stamp; who once had houses and hounds and
horses, but who now sits in the rumble, and rides a borrowed hack. If
you want to make a virtue of your contentment, Fagan, change places with
me."

"But would you take mine, Mr. MacNaghten? Would you toil, and slave, and
fag,--would you shut out the sun, that your daily labor should have no
suggestive temptings to enjoyment,--would you satisfy yourself that the
world should be to you one everlasting struggle, till at last the very
capacity to feel it otherwise was lost to you forever?"

"That's more than I am able to picture to myself," said MacNaghten,
sipping his wine. "I 've lain in a ditch for two hours with a broken
thigh-bone, thinking all the time of the jolly things I 'd do when I 'd
get wel