On the following evening, when the family were, as usual, assembled together in the parlour, Mr. Fitzallan began his promised tale as follows:—
“About twelve years ago, there was known at Boston, in North America, a boy, who, from the vagrant life he led, was distinguished by the degrading appellation of Dirty Barnaby. He had been maintained by the parish, but was so deformed, and of such a disgusting appearance, that no one would take him as an apprentice, and he was obliged to earn a scanty subsistence, by performing such menial offices for the inhabitants as few others would undertake. This child of misfortune was the butt of ridicule to all the boys in the place; and the hardships and ignominy he was continually exposed to, created in his mind a sort of sullen gloom, which added to the unpleasantness of his rudely-formed countenance.
“The only object towards which he displayed the least show of kindness or affection, was a large dog, which followed him about wherever he went, and who patiently shared the kicks bestowed on his less-docile master, and as meekly partook with him his sorry meal of mouldy fragments.
“In the same neighbourhood was a young gentleman, whom I shall distinguish by the name of Theodore, who was as remarkable for his personal graces as poor Barnaby was for his deformity. He had often wondered how such a miserable object became possessed of such a fine dog, and one day, with much affability, interrogated him on the subject.
‘Pray, my lad,’ said he to him, with a voice of kindness to which the boy had been little accustomed, ‘what is your dog’s name?’
‘Rover, Sir.’
‘Have you had him long?’
‘Two years.’
‘Was he given to you by any body in this place?’
‘Do you think I stole him, Sir?’