“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 train, and have a mass of letters to answer before that.”
“When am I to see you again, Davy?” asked the old man, eagerly.
“Very soon, I hope, sir; as soon as I can, of that you may be certain,” said he, cordially.
“Let it be soon, then, Davy, for the meeting does me good. I feel to-night ten years younger than before you came, and it isn't the wine either; 'tis the sight of your face and the touch of your hand. Good-night, and my blessing be with you!” And a tear coursed down his seared cheek as he spoke.