"You are the only person who has ever dared to resist me."
"That may be; I am daring—because you have been kind."
"Kind to you. Yes—to you only."
"It may be so, and because kind to me, and me only, I, and I only, presume to say No when you say Yes."
He came again to the fireplace and again leaned against the mantel-shelf. He was trembling with passion.
"And what if I say that, if you go, I will turn old Dunes—I mean your aunt—out of the house?"
"You will not say it, Mr. Coppinger; you are too noble, too generous, to take a mean revenge."
"Oh! you allow there is some good in me?"
"I thankfully and cheerfully protest there is a great deal of good in you—and I would there were more."
"Come—stay here and teach me to be good—be my crutch; I will lean on you, and you shall help me along the right way."
"You are too great a weight, Mr. Coppinger," said she, smiling—but it was a frightened and a forced smile. "You would bend and break the little crutch."
He heaved a long breath. He was looking at her from under his hand and his bent brows.
"You are cruel—to deny me a chance. And what if I were to say that I am hungry, sick at heart, and faint. Would you turn your back and leave me?"
"No, assuredly not"
"I am hungry."
She looked up at him, and was frightened by the glitter in his eyes.
"I am hungry for the sight of you, for the sound of your voice."
She did not say anything to this, but sat, with her hands on her lap, musing, uncertain how to deal with this man, so strange, impulsive, and yet so submissive to her, and even appealing to her pity.
"Mr. Coppinger, I have to think of and care for Jamie, and he takes up all my thoughts and engrosses all my time."
"Jamie, again!"
"So that I cannot feed and teach another orphan."
"Put off your departure—a week. Grant me that.
