"So I do," replied the little heroine—"at least on what is quite as good—for I have all I want, all I care about, never owing a sous, and being a charge to no one. Besides, I have a secret happiness which nothing can take away; and, when I go into the church of a morning to mass, I thank God with all my heart for all the blessings he gives me, and, above all, for the extreme content which makes all the world seem a paradise of enjoyment. I never know what it is to be dull, and as for charcoal, I have no objection to it in a foot-warmer, but that is all the acquaintance I am likely to make with it."
"Poor soul!" returned the Parisienne, "how I pity you!"
BLEAK HOUSE.[D]
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
CHAPTER XI.—Our Dear Brother.
A touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand, as he stands in the dark room, irresolute, makes him start and say, "What's that?"
"It's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his ear. "Can't you wake him?"
"No."
"What have you done with your candle?"