smoking and musing in his own room, for the last few hours had completely altered the tenor of his strongest feelings. He was like a man that had been suddenly and rudely awakened out of a weird, uneasy dream.
During his visit to Jonas Shuttleworth he had been constantly and steadily abusing Aske. He had talked of nothing else but the wrong Aske had done him, and the means and conditions of his revenge on Aske. He had stimulated his hatred until it had become the ruling passion of his life. Three hours ago he would have called any man friend who had brought him tidings of Aske's probable death.
And the miracle was this; he could not, he could not rekindle the flame of hatred against him.
"I'm not mysen at all," he muttered; "I'd be most willing to swear it wasn't Jonathan Burley in my coat-sleeves to-night. Whativer hes come cover me? It is like as if God had said to me, 'Jonathan Burley, thou hes done thy own way long enough. Turn thee round about and do My way!' When t' sun set to-night I hated Aske wi' all my heart and soul. I thought I hed t' best o' reasons for hating him; and to
