"And don't you think he knows that?" asked Biddy.

     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."