die out, but smoulder away to a heap of white ashes; over these is
hanging a black boiler, the cook of the family; and beside them, on a
substratum of dry heather, and wrapped about with an old blanket, nearly
companioned by his friend, the dog, snores Thomas Acton, still fast
asleep, after his usual extemporaneous fashion.

As to the up-stairs apartment, it contained little or nothing but its
living inmates, their bedsteads and tattered coverlids, and had an air
of even more penury and discomfort than the room below; so that, what
with squalling children, a scolding wife, and empty stomach, and that
cold and wet March morning, it is little wonder maybe (though no small
blame), that Roger Acton had not enough of religion or philosophy to
rise and thank his Maker for the blessings of existence.

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