them should not thus be made to cease. He had acted as he thought
not only fairly but very honourably. Nay;--he was by no means sure
that that which had been intended for fairness and honour might not
have been sheer simplicity. He had purposely abstained from any
clandestine communication with the girl he loved,--even though she
was one to whom he had had access all his life, with whom he had
been allowed to grow up together;--who had eaten of his bread and
drank of his cup. Now her new friends,--and his own old friend the
Countess,--would keep no measures with him. There was to be no
intercourse whatever! But, by the God of heaven, there should be
intercourse!

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE KESWICK POET.

Infinite difficulties were now complicating themselves on the head of
poor Daniel Thwaite. The packet which the Countess addressed to him
did not reach him in London, but was forwarded after him down to
Cumberland, whither he had hurried on receipt of news from Keswick
that his father was like to die. The old man had fallen in a fit, and
when the message was sent it was not thought likely that he would
ever see his son again. Daniel went down to the north as quickly as
his means would allow him, going by steamer to Whitehaven, and thence
by coach to Keswick. His entire wages were but thirty-five shillings
a week, and on that he could not afford to travel by the mail to
Keswick. But he did reach home in time to see his father alive, and
to stand by the bedside when the old man died.

Though there was not time for many words between them, and though
the apathy of coming death had already clouded the mind of Thomas
Thwaite, so that he, for the most part, disregarded,--as dying men do
disregard,--those things which had been fullest of interest to him;
still something was said about the Countess and Lady Anna. "Just
don't mind them any further, Dan," said the father.

"Indeed that will be best," said Daniel.

"Yes, in truth. What can they be to the likes o' you? Give me a drop
of brandy, Dan." The drop of brandy was more to him now than the
Countess; but though he thought but little of this last word, his son
thought much of it. What could such as the Countess and her titled
daughter be to him, Daniel Thwaite, the broken tailor? For, in truth,
his father was dying, a broken man. There was as much owed by him
in Keswick as all the remaining property would pay; and as for the
business, it had come to that, that the bus