"I wouldn't have you say that, sir. I
don't think it any part of my duty to be fond of my lady. I have served
her faithfully this many a year; but if she were to die to-morrow, I
believe, before Heaven I shouldn't shed a tear for her." Then, after a
pause, "I have no reason to love her!" Mrs. Bread added. "The most she
has done for me has been not to turn me out of the house." Newman felt
that decidedly his companion was more and more confidential--that if
luxury is corrupting, Mrs. Bread's conservative habits were already
relaxed by the spiritual comfort of this preconcerted interview, in
a remarkable locality, with a free-spoken millionaire. All his native
shrewdness admonished him that his part was simply to let her take her
time--let the charm of the occasion work. So he said nothing; he only
looked at her kindly. Mrs. Bread sat nursing her lean elbows. "My lady
once did me a great wrong," she went on at last. "She has a terrible
tongue when she is vexed. It was many a year ago, but I have never
forgotten it. I have never mentioned it to a human creature; I have kept
my grudge to myself. I dare say I have been wicked, but my grudge has
grown old with me. It has grown good for nothing, too, I dare say;
but it has lived along, as I have lived. It will die when I die,--not
before!"
"And what IS your grudge?" Newman asked.
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