He had just been dreaming of great good luck.  Poor people often do so; just as Ugolino dreamt of imperial feasts, and Bruce, in his delirious thirst on the Sahara, could not banish from his mind the cool fountains of Shiraz, and the luxurious waters of old Nile.  Roger had unfortunately dreamt of having found a crock of gold—­I dare say he will tell us his dream anon—­and just as he was counting out his treasure, that blessed beautiful heap of shining money—­cruel habit roused him up before the dawn, and his wealth faded from his fancy.  So he awoke at five, anything but cheerfully.

It was Grace’s habit, good girl, to read to her father in the morning a few verses from the volume she best loved:  she always woke betimes when she heard him getting up, and he could hear her easily from her little flock-bed behind the lath partition; and many a time had her dear religious tongue, uttering the words of peace, soothed her father’s mind, and strengthened him to meet the day’s affliction; many times it raised his thoughts from the heavy cares of life to the buoyant hopes of immortality.  Hitherto, Roger had owed half his meek contentedness to those sweet lessons from a daughter’s lips, and knew that he was reaping, as he heard, the harvest of his own paternal care, and heaven-blest instructions.  However, upon this dark morning, he was full of other thoughts, murmurings, and doubts, and poverty, and riches.  So, when Grace, after her usual affectionate salutations, gently began to read,

“The sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory—­”

Her father strangely stopped her on a sudden with—­

“Enough, enough, my girl!  God wot, the sufferings are grievous, and the glory long a-coming.”

Then he heavily went down stairs, and left Grace crying.

CHAPTER III.

The contrast.

Thus, full of carking care, while he pushed aside the proffered consolation, Roger Acton walked abroad.  There was yet but a glimmer of faint light, and the twittering of birds told more assuringly of morning than any cheerful symptom on the sky:  however, it had pretty well ceased raining, that was one comfort, and, as Roger, shouldering his spade, and with the day’s provision in a handkerchief, trudged out upon his daily duty, those good old thoughts of thankfulness came upon his mind, and he forgot awhile the dream that had unstrung him.  Turning for a moment to look upon his hovel, and bless its inmates with a prayer, he half resolved to run back, and hear a few more words, if only not to vex his darling child:  but there was now no time to spare; and then, as he gazed upon her desolate abode—­so foul a casket for so fair a jewel—­his bitter thoughts returned to him again, and he strode away, repining.