THE MOOR COTTAGE. CHAPTER I. "Not too good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles." WORDSWORTH. It was a cold rainy evening in October, the street lamps in the little town of Market Craven had been lighted an hour, and the gas from the principal shops, distributed at intervals down the High-street, cast ruddy gleams across the pavement, brightening pools of water and wet flagstones, and mocking the uncomfortable passers-by with glimpses of brilliant interiors, which made dripping cloaks and soaked shoes more comfortless still. There are firesides which look especially bright and snug on a rainy evening, and such an one there was in a small house which stood on the outskirts of the town. It was an old-fashioned wainscoted room; the curtains were closed, the polished copper kettle sang |