been before him. He was in circumstances to keep a wife, and he wanted
her to marry him and go along with him. She persisted, no. He asked if
she didn't love him. Yes, she loved him dearly, dearly; but she could
never disappoint her beloved, good, noble, generous, and I-don't-know-
what-all father (meaning me, the Cheap Jack in the sleeved waistcoat) and
she would stay with him, Heaven bless him! though it was to break her
heart. Then she cried most bitterly, and that made up my mind.

While my mind had been in an unsettled state about her favouring this
young man, I had felt that unreasonable towards Pickleson, that it was
well for him he had got his legacy down. For I often thought, "If it
hadn't been for this same weak-minded giant, I might never have come to
trouble my head and wex my soul about the young man." But, once that I
knew she loved him,--once that I had seen her weep for him,--it was a
different thing. I made it right in my mind with Pickleson on the spot,
and I shook myself together to do what was right by all.

She had left the young man by that time (for it took a few minutes to get
me thoroughly well shook together), and the young man was leaning against
another of the fir-trees,--of which there was a cluster,--with his face
upon his arm. I touched him on the back. Looking up and seeing me, he
says, in our deaf-and-dumb talk, "Do not be angry."

"I am not angry, good boy. I am your friend. Come with me."

I left him at the foot of the steps of the Library Cart, and I went up
alone. She was drying her eyes.

"You have been crying, my dear."