d him
for a Dutchman.

Whatever he was, the boy throve well, and being so flouted by his
playmates, took to thoughts and habits and amusements of his own.
In-door life never suited him at all, nor too much of hard learning,
although his capacity was such that he took more advancement in an hour
than the thick heads of young Flamborough made in a whole leap-year of
Sundays. For any Flamburian boy was considered a "Brain Scholar," and a
"Head-Languager," when he could write down the parson's text, and chalk
up a fish on the weigh-board so that his father or mother could tell in
three guesses what manner of fish it was. And very few indeed had ever
passed this trial.

For young Robin it was a very hard thing to be treated so by the other
boys. He could run, or jump, or throw a stone, or climb a rock with the
best of them; but all these things he must do by himself, simply because
he had no name. A feeble youth would have moped, but Robin only grew
more resolute. Alone he did what the other boys would scarcely in
competition dare. No crag was too steep for him, no cave too dangerous
and wave-beaten, no race of the tide so strong and swirling as to scare
him of his wits. He seemed to rejoice in danger, having very little else
to rejoice in; and he won for himself by nimble ways and rapid turns on
land and sea, the name of "Lithe," or "Lyth," and made it famous even
far inland.

For it may be supposed that his love of excitement, versatility,
and daring demanded a livelier outlet than the slow toil of deep-sea
fishing. To the most patient, persevering, and long-suffering of the
arts, Robin Lyth did not take kindly, although he was so handy with a
boat. Old Robin vainly strove to cast his angling mantle over him. The
gifts of the youth were brighter and higher; he showed an inborn fitness
for the lofty development of free trade. Eminent powers must force their
way, as now they were doing with Napoleon; and they did the same with
Robin Lyth, without exacting tithe in kind of all the foremost human
race.

CHAPTER XII

IN A LANE, NOT ALONE

Stephen Anerley's daughter was by no means of a crooked mind, but open
as the day in all things, unless any one mistrusted her, and showed it
by cross-questioning. When this was done, she resented it quickly by
concealing the very things which she would have told of her own accord;
and it so happened that the person to whom of all she should have been
most open, was the one most