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der whether she was happy with her husband! Do you know
much about them?’
‘No; only that my grandfather was a patriot—a bright
fellow— could speak many languages—musical—got his
bread by teaching all sorts of things. They both died rather
early. And I never knew much of my father, beyond what
my mother told me; but he inherited the musical talents. I
remember his slow walk and his long thin hands; and one
day remains with me when he was lying ill, and I was very
hungry, and had only a little bit of bread.’
‘Ah, what a different life from mine!’ said Dorothea, with
keen interest, clasping her hands on her lap. ‘I have always
had too much of everything. But tell me how it was— Mr.
Casaubon could not have known about you then.’
‘No; but my father had made himself known to Mr. Casa-
ubon, and that was my last hungry day. My father died soon
after, and my mother and I were well taken care of. Mr.
Casaubon always expressly recognized it as his duty to take
care of us because of the harsh injustice which had been
shown to his mother’s sister. But now I am telling you what
is not new to you.’
In his inmost soul Will was conscious of wishing to tell
Dorothea what was rather new even in his own construc-
tion of things— namely, that Mr. Casaubon had never done
more than pay a debt towards him. Will was much too good
a fellow to be easy under the sense of being ungrateful. And
when gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are
many ways of escaping from its bonds.
‘No,’ answered Dorothea; ‘Mr. Casaubon has always