CHAPTER XXXIII 477
" No ."
" Whose , then ?" " His daughter ' s , I think ." " It is like her : she is so good-natured ." " Yes ."
Again came the blank of a pause : the clock struck eight strokes . It aroused him ; he uncrossed his legs , sat erect , turned to me .
" Leave your book a moment , and come a little nearer the fire ," he said . Wondering , and of my wonder finding no end , I complied .
" Half-an-hour ago ," he pursued , " I spoke of my impatience to hear the sequel of a tale : on reflection , I find the matter will be better managed by my assuming the narrator ' s part , and converting you into a listener . Before commencing , it is but fair to warn you that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your ears ; but stale details often regain a degree of freshness when they pass through new lips . For the rest , whether trite or novel , it is short .
" Twenty years ago , a poor curate -- never mind his name at this moment -- fell in love with a rich man ' s daughter ; she fell in love with him , and married him , against the advice of all her friends , who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding . Before two years passed , the rash pair were both dead , and laid quietly side by side under one slab . ( I have seen their grave ; it formed part of the pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim , soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in -shire .) They left a daughter , which , at its very birth , Charity received in her lap -- cold as that of the snow-drift I almost stuck fast in to-night . Charity carried the friendless thing to the house of its rich maternal relations ; it was reared by an aunt-in-law , called ( I come to names