The old man's brow darkened, he pushed his glass from him, and looked offended and displeased.
Dunn quickly saw the change that had passed over him, and cutting the wire of a champagne flask, he filled out a foaming tumbler of the generous wine, saying, “Drink this to your own good health, father,—to the man whose wise teachings and prudent maxims have made his son a foremost figure 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.”