is, walking down the
lane from Colonel Pompley's house! Now, if Digby had but learned a
little of the world's cunning, I think he would have succeeded even with
Colonel Pompley. Had he spent the L100 received from Lord l'Estrange
with a view to effect--had he bestowed a fitting wardrobe on himself and
his pretty Helen; had he stopped at the last stage, taken thence a smart
chaise and pair, and presented himself at Colonel Pompley's in a way
that would not have discredited the Colonel's connection, and then,
instead of praying for home and shelter, asked the Colonel to become
guardian to his child in case of his death, I have a strong notion that
the Colonel, in spite of his avarice, would have stretched both ends so
as to take in Helen Digby. But our poor friend 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