“Biddy, what do you mean?”

Biddy, having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands, — and the smell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that evening in the little garden by the side of the lane, — said, “Have you never considered that he may be proud?”

“Proud?” I repeated, with disdainful emphasis.

“O! there are many kinds of pride,” said Biddy, looking full at me and shaking her head; “pride is not all of one kind — ”

“Well? What are you stopping for?” said I.

“Not all of one kind,” resumed Biddy. “He may be too proud to let any one take him out of a place