"No, Captain Morgan. Catherine is always good when she is with you. I think I almost like her then. I would not harm her," said Hester, holding up her head, "if I had the power to do it. But she scorns every one of us; perhaps because we all consent to eat her bread. I would not, you know, if I could help it."
"I know you are ungenerous, Hester, in that respect."
"Ungenerous! Well, never mind, there are more kinds of ungenerosity than one. I am going in with you to tell Mrs. Morgan."
"I am not sure," said the old captain, "though it is a wretched piece of self-denial, that I want you to come with me to-night."
Hester opened her great eyes wide.
"Why!" she said. It was the one house in the world to which she felt she had a right.
"That is nonsense, however," said the old man; "for of course you must meet. We have got our grandson, Hester."
"I heard somebody had come, but I thought it was a gentleman. I did not know you had any—children—except little Mary."
"We have none—in this world; but do you think my wife would have been what she is with never a child? We all have our disabilities, my love. I have never been a young girl, and you have never been an old—pair."
They both laughed. Hester with the easily-recovered cheerfulness of youth, he in tremulous tones, which had as much pathos as mirth in them.