ar were the Daltons from suspecting that they were the subject
of so much and such varied solicitude, and that, while Lady Hester was
fancying to herself all the fashionable beauties whom Kate would eclipse
in loveliness, and what an effect charms like hers would produce on
society, Sir Stafford was busily concerting with his lawyer the means
of effectually benefiting them; and George Onslow for want of better
speculated, as he smoked, on "the kind of people" they would prove, and
wondered whether the scheme were worth the light trouble it was to cost
him. Little did they know of all this, little imagine that outside
of their humble roof there lived one save "dear Frank" whose thoughts
included them. "The purple and fine linen" category of this world cannot
appreciate the force of this want of sympathy! They, whose slightest
griefs and least afflictions in life are always certain of the
consolations of friends, and the even more bland solace of a fashionable
physician whose woes are re-echoed by the "Morning Post," and whose
sorrows are mourned in Court Journals cannot frame to themselves the
sense of isolation which narrow fortune impresses. "Poverty," says
a classical authority, "has no heavier evil than that it makes men
ridiculous." But this wound to self-love, deep and poignant though it
be, is light in comparison with the crushing sense of isolation, that
abstraction from sympathy in which poor men live!

The Daltons were seated around Hanserl's bed, silently ministering to
the sick man, and watching with deep and anxious interest the labored
respiration and convulsive twitches of his fever. The wild and rapid
utterance of his lips, and the strange fancies they syllabled,
often exciting him to laughter, only deepened the gravity of their
countenances, and cast over the glances they interchanged a tinge of
sadder meaning.

"He could n't have better luck," muttered Dalton, sorrowfully; "just
from being a friend to us! If he had never seen nor heard of us, maybe
't is happy and healthy he 'd be to-day!"

"Nay, nay, papa," said Nelly, gently; "this is to speak too gloomily;
nor is it good for us to throw on fortune the burden that we each should
bear patiently."

"Don't tell me that there is not such a thing as luck!" replied Dalton,
in a tone of irritation. "I know well whether there is or no! For
five-and-thirty years whatever I put my hand to in life turned out
badly. It was the same whether I did anything on t