a was allowed to go to her bed, and to weep
in solitude over the wretchedness of her condition. It was not only
that she loved Daniel Thwaite with all her heart,--loved him with
a love that had grown with every year of her growth;--but that she
feared him also. The man had become her master; and even could she
have brought herself to be false, she would have lacked the courage
to declare her falsehood to the man to whom she had vowed her love.

On the following morning Lady Anna did not come down to breakfast,
and the Countess began to fear that she would be unable to induce her
girl to rise in time to receive their visitor. But the poor child had
resolved to receive the man's visit, and contemplated no such escape
as that. At eleven o'clock she slowly dressed herself, and before
twelve crept down into the one sitting-room which they occupied. The
Countess glanced round at her, anxious to see that she was looking
her best. Certain instructions had been given as to her dress, and
the garniture of her hair, and the disposal of her ribbons. All
these had been fairly well obeyed; but there was a fixed, determined
hardness in her face which made her mother fear that the Earl might
be dismayed. The mother knew that her child had never looked like
that before.

Punctually at twelve the Earl was announced. The Countess received
him very pleasantly, and with great composure. She shook hands with
him as though they had known each other all their lives, and then
introduced him to her daughter with a sweet smile. "I hope you will
acknowledge her as your far-away cousin, my lord. Blood, they say, is
thicker than water; and, if so, you two ought to be friends."

"I am sure I hope we may be," said the Earl.

"I hope so too,--my lord," said the girl, as she left her hand quite
motionless in his.

"We heard of you down in Cumberland," said the Countess. "It is
long since I have seen the old place, but I shall never forget it.
There is not a bush among the mountains there that I shall not
remember,--ay, into the next world, if aught of our memories are left
to us."

"I love the mountains; but the house is very gloomy."

"Gloomy indeed. If you found it sad, what must it have been to me? I
hope that I may tell you some day of all that I suffered there. There
are things to tell of which I have never yet spoken to human being.
She, poor child, has been too young and too tender to be troubled
by such a tale. I sometimes think that no