“Let us change the topic, Dalton,” said Foglass, pathetically, as he wiped his brow like a man dispelling a dark train of thought. “Here's to that charming young lady I saw last evening, a worthy sister of the beautiful Miss Dalton.”
“A better child never breathed,” said Dalton, drinking off his glass. “My own poor Nelly,” muttered he, below his breath, “'t is better than handsome ye are, true-hearted, and fond of your old father.”
“She has accomplishments, sir, that would realize a fortune; that is,” said he, perceiving the dark cloud that passed over Dalton's features, “that is, if she were in a rank of life to need it.”
“Yes very true just so,” stammered out Dalton, not quite sure how to accept the speech. “'Tis a fine thing to be able to make money, not that it was ever the gift of the Daltons. We were real gentlemen to the backbone; and there was n't one of the name for five generations, barring Stephen, that could earn sixpence if he was starving.”
“But Stephen, what could he do?” inquired Foglass, curious to hear of this singular exception to the family rule.
“He took to soldiering in the Austrian army, and he 's a field-marshal, and I don't know what more beside, this minute. My son Frank 's there now.”
“And likes it?”
“Troth, he does n't say a great deal about that. His letter is mighty short, and tells very little more than where he 's quartered, how hard-worked he is, and that he never gets a minute to himself, poor fellow!”
“Miss Kate, then, has drawn the prize in the lottery of life?” said Foglass, who was anxious to bring the subject back to her.
“Faix, that's as it may be,” said the other, thoughtfully. “Her letters is full of high life and great people, grand dances and balls, and the rest of it; but sure, if she 's to come back here again and live at home, won't it come mighty strange to her?”