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"Bless me, poor Arthur Branthwaite's poems. And you were positively reading those not induced to do so by respect for his father? Could you make head or tail of them?"
John has slept for twenty years in the room at Armboth in which the spiritual presence is said to walk, and has never yet seen anything more terrible than his own shadow. Here, too, at Matthew Branthwaite's side, sits little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite, who has seen the Armboth bogle. He saw it one night when he was returning home from the Red Lion.
Once at the house the dinner was soon over, and not even Mrs. Branthwaite's homely, if hesitating, importunity could prevail with Robbie to make a substantial meal. "Come, lad," said Matthew, "you've had but a stepmother bit."
I'm glad Lionel has won a friend in such a man. Sidney Branthwaite's son married Vance's sister after Vance had won reputation?" "No; while Vance was still a boy. Young Arthur Branthwaite was an orphan. If he had any living relations, they were too poor to assist him. Those villanous critics will have a dark account to render in the next world! Poor Arthur Branthwaite!
It was, nevertheless, whispered that Robbie was the favored sweetheart among many of Matthew Branthwaite's young daughter Liza; but the old man, who had never been remarkable for sensibility, had said over and over again, "She'll lick a lean poddish stick, Bobbie, that weds the like of thee." Latterly the young man had in a silent way shown some signs of reform.
He asked but delay to write a few lines of affectionate inquiry to his kinsman at Fawley, and, while he wrote, George took out Arthur Branthwaite's poems, and resumed their perusal. Lionel having sealed his letter, George extended the book to him. "Here are some remarkable poems by a brother-in-law of that remarkable artist, Frank Vance." "Frank Vance! True, he had a brother-in-law a poet.
"I reckon we must all turn out at the edge of the dawn to-morrow, and see what we can do to find old Betsy," said Mr. Jackson. Matthew Branthwaite's sagest saws had failed him. Such a contingency as this had never been foreseen by that dispenser of proverbs. It had lifted him out of himself.
The wind was high. It found its way through the open casement. It fluttered the face-cloth above the face. Ralph pushed back the sash, and in a moment he was gone. The household on the Moss were early astir on the morning appointed for the funeral of Angus Ray. Matthew Branthwaite's wife and daughter were bustling about the kitchen of the old house soon after daybreak. Mrs.
Good neet, 'Becca, good neet, and 'od white te, lass, God requite thee!" So they drove to Matthew Branthwaite's cottage, and installed the sick man in the disused workroom, where the loom had stood silent for nearly ten years. A rough shakedown was improvised, a log fire was speedily kindled, and in half an hour Mrs.
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