After about an hour’s walk both returned to breakfast, and whatever may have been the conversation that took place between them, or whatever extent of confidence Dunphy reposed in old Sam, there can be little doubt that his glee this morning was infinitely greater than on the preceding-evening, although, at Dunphy’s earnest request, considerably more subdued.  Nay, the latter had so far succeeded with old Sam as to induce him to promise, that for the present at least, he would forbear to communicate it to his wife.  Sam, however, would under no circumstances promise this until he should first hear the nature of it, upon which, he said, he would then judge for himself.  After hearing it, however, he said that on Dunphy’s own account he would not breathe it even to her without his permission.

“Mind,” said Dunphy, at the conclusion of their dialogue, and with his usual caution, “I am not sartin of what I have mentioned; but I hope, plaise God, in a short time to be able to prove it; and, if not, as nobody knows it but yourself an’ me, why there’s no harm done.  Dear knows, I have a strong reason for lettin’ the matter lie as it is, even if my suspicions are true; but my conscience isn’t aisy, Mr. Eoberts, an’ for that raison’ I came to spake to you, to consult with you, and to have your advice.”

“And my advice to you is, Dunphy, not to attack the enemy until your plans are properly laid, and all your forces in a good position.  The thing can’t be proved now, you say; very well; you’d be only a fool for attempting to prove it.”

“I’m not sayin’,” said the cautious old sinner again, “that it can be proved at any time, or proved at all—­that is, for a sartinty; but I think, afther a time, it may.  There’s a person not now in the country, that will be back shortly, I hope; and if any one can prove what I mentioned to you, that person can.  I know we’d make a powerful friend by it, but—­”

Here he squirted his thin tobacco spittle “out owre his beard,” but added nothing further.

“Dunphy, my fine old fellow,” said Sam, “it was very kind of you to come to me upon this point.  You know the affection I have for the young man; thank you, Dunphy; but it’s natural—­it’s all the heart of man.  Dunphy, how long is it, now, since you and I messed together in the gallant eleven times three?  Fifty years, I think, Dunphy, or more.  You were a smart fellow then, and became servant, I think, to a young captain—­what’s this his name was? oh!  I remember—­Gourlay; for, Dunphy, I remember the name of every officer in our regiment, since I entered it; when they joined, when they exchanged, sold out, or died like brave men in the field of battle.  It’s upwards of fifty.  By the way, he left us—­sold out immediately after his father’s death.”