"Is there anybody else?" asked Morton.
"Not as I know. I never saw anything like--like lightness with her,
with any man. They said something about the curate but I don't
believe a word of it."
"And the family approve of it?"
"Every one of them,--father and stepmother and sisters and all. My
own mother too! There ain't a ha'porth against it. I don't want any
one to give me sixpence in money. And she should live just like a
lady. I can keep a servant for her to cook and do every mortal
thing. But it ain't nothing of all that, Mr. Morton."
"What is it then?"
The poor man paused before he made his answer; but when he did, he
made it plain enough. "I ain't good enough for her! Nor more I
ain't, Mr. Morton. She was brought up in this house, Mr. Morton, by
your own grand-aunt."
"So I have heard, Mr. Twentyman."
"And there's more of Bragton than there is of Dillsborough about
her; that's just where it is. I know what I am and I know what she
is, and I ain't good enough for her. It should be somebody that can
talk books to her. I can tell her how to plant a field of wheat or
how to run a foal;--but I can't sit and read poetry, nor yet be
read to. There's plenty of 'em would sell themselves because the
land's all there, and the house, and the things in it. What makes
me mad is that I should love her all the better because she won't.
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