“The same, sir.”
“It was they that used to be so cruel to you, Davy, wasn't it?”
“I was a foolish boy, ignorant of the world and its ways at the time. I fancied fifty things to mean offence which never were intended to wound me.”
“Ay, they made you eat in the servants' hall, I think.”
“Never, sir,—never; they placed me at a side table once or twice when pressed for room.”
“Well, it was the room you had somewhere in a hayloft, eh?”
“Nothing of the kind, sir. Your memory is all astray. My chamber was small,—for the cottage had not much accommodation,—but I was well and suitably lodged.”
“Well, what was it they did?” muttered he to himself. “I know it was something that made you cry the whole night after you came home.”
“Father, father! these are unprofitable memories,” said Dunn, sternly. “Were one to treasure up the score of all the petty slights he may have received in life, so that in some day of power he might acquit the debt, success would be anything but desirable.”
“I'm not so sure of that, Davy. I never forgot an injury.”