ure 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 tra