d
had no such arts. Indeed, of the L100, he had already very little left,
for before leaving town he had committed what Sheridan considered the
extreme of extravagance--frittered away his money in paying his debts;
and as for dressing up Helen and himself--if that thought had ever
occurred to him, he would have rejected it as foolish. He would have
thought that the more he showed his poverty, the more he would be
pitied--the worst mistake a poor cousin can commit. According to
Theophrastus, the partridge of Paphlagonia has two hearts; so have most
men: it is the common mistake of the unlucky to knock at the wrong one.

CHAPTER XI.

Mr. Digby entered the room of the inn in which he had left Helen. She
was seated by the window, and looking out wistfully on the narrow
street, perhaps at the children at play. There had never been a playtime
for Helen Digby. She sprang forward as her father came in. His coming
was her holiday.

"We must go back to London," said Mr. Digby, sinking helplessly on the
chair. Then with his sort of sickly smile--for he was bland even to his
child--"Will you kindly inquire when the first coach leaves?"

All the active cares of their careful life devolved upon that quiet
child. She kissed her father, placed before him a cough mixture which he
had brought from London, and went out silently to make the necessary
inquiries, and prepare for the journey back.

At eight o'clock the father and child were seated in the night-coach,
with one other passenger--a man muffled up to the chin. After the first
mile, the man let down one of the windows. Though it was summer, the air
was chill and raw. Digby shivered and coughed.

Helen placed her hand on the window, and, leaning toward the passenger,
whispered softly.

"Eh!" said the passenger, "draw up the windows? You have got your own
window; this is mine. Oxygen, young lady," he added solemnly, "oxygen is
the breath of life. Cott, child!" he continued, with suppressed choler,
and a Welsh pronunciation, "Cott! let us breathe and live."

Helen was frightened, and recoiled.

Her father, who had not heard, or had not heeded this colloquy,
retreated into the corner, put up the collar of his coat, and coughed
again.

"It is cold, my dear," said he languidly to Helen.

The passenger caught the word, and replied indignantly, but as if
soliloquizing--

"Cold--ugh! I do believe the English are the stuffiest people! Look at
their four-post beds?--al