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.