'What, are you not proud?' asked the old man.
'Not at all. I have been taught to consider myself a very insignificant person; and I am going to marry a poor man. It would not become me to be proud.'
'But you ought not to do that,' said the old man. 'You ought not to marry a poor man. Poverty is a bad thing, my dear. You are a pretty girl, and ought to marry a man with a handsome fortune. Poor men have no pleasure in this world—they might just as well be dead. I am poor, as you see. You can tell by this threadbare coat'—he looked down at the sleeve from which the nap was worn in places—'I am as poor as a church mouse.'
'But you have kind friends, I dare say,' Mary said, soothingly. 'You are well taken care of, I am sure.'
'Yes, I am well taken care of—very well taken care of. How long is it, I wonder—how many weeks, or months, or years, since they have taken care of me? It seems a long, long time; but it is all like a dream—a long dream. Once I used to try and wake myself. I used to try and struggle out of that weary dream. But that was ages ago. I am satisfied now—I am quite content now—so long as the weather is warm, and I can sit out here in the sun.'
'It is growing chilly now,' said Mary, 'and I think you ought to go indoors. I know that I must go.'
'Yes, I must go in now—I am getting shivery,' answered the old man, meekly. 'But I want to see you again, Mary—I like your face—and I like your voice. It strikes a chord here,' touching his breast, 'which has long been silent. Let me see you again, child. When can I see you again?'
'Do you sit here every afternoon when it is fine?'
'Yes, every day—all day long sometimes when the sun is warm.'
'Then I will come here to see you.'