o the intellect of those which are more finely
made."

"I hope men and women will not give way to bugs and fleas," said the
tailor, who was wont to ridicule his son's philosophy.

The son was about to explain his theory of the perfected mean size of
intellectual created beings, when his heart was at the present moment
full of Anna Lovel. "Father," he said, "I think that the Countess
might have spared her observations."

"I thought so too;--but as she said it, it was best that I should
tell you. You'll have to marry some day, and it wouldn't do that you
should look there for your sweetheart." When the matter was thus
brought home to him, Daniel Thwaite would argue it no further. "It
will all come to an end soon," continued the old man, "and it may
be that they had better not move till it is settled. They'll divide
the money, and there will be enough for both in all conscience. The
Countess will be the Countess, and the Lady Anna will be the Lady
Anna; and then there will be no more need of the old tailor from
Keswick. They will go into another world, and we shall hear from them
perhaps about Christmas time with a hamper of game, and may be a
little wine, as a gift."

"You do not think that of them, father."

"What else can they do? The lawyers will pay the money, and they
will be carried away. They cannot come to our house, nor can we go
to theirs. I shall leave to-morrow, my boy, at six o'clock; and my
advice to you is to trouble them with your presence as little as
possible. You may be sure that they do not want it."

Daniel Thwaite was certainly not disposed to take his father's
advice, but then he knew much more than did his father. The above
scene took place in the evening, when the son's work was done. As he
crept down on the following morning by the door of the room in which
the two ladies slept, he could not but think of his father's words,
"It wouldn't do that you should look there for your sweetheart." Why
should it not do? But any such advice as that was now too late. He
had looked there for his sweetheart. He had spoken, and the girl had
answered him. He had held her close to his heart, and had pressed her
lips to his own, and had called her his Anna, his well-beloved, his
pearl, his treasure; and she,--she had only sighed in his arms, and
yielded to his embrace. She had wept alone when she thought of it,
with a conscious feeling that as she was the Lady Anna there could be
no happy love between herse