It was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most
distant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly,--
"Biddy, what do you mean?"
Biddy, having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands,--and the
smell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that
evening in the little garden by the side of the lane,--said, "Have
you never considered that he may be proud?"
"Proud?" I repeated, with disdainful emphasis.
"O! there are many kinds of pride," said Biddy, looking full at me
and shaking her head; "pride is not all of one kind--"
"Well? What are you stopping for?" said I.
"Not all of one kind," resumed Biddy. "He may be too proud to let
any one take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and
fills well and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is;
though it sounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far
better than I do."
"Now, Biddy," said I, "I am very sorry to see this in you. I did
not expect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and
grudging. You are dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune,
and you can't help showing it."
"If you have the heart to think so," returned Biddy, "say so. Say
so over and over again, if you have the heart to think so."
"If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy," said I, in a
virtuous and superior tone; "don't put it off upon me.
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