rather beg than see my wife starve," said Arabin.

Crawley when he heard these words turned sharply round, and stood
with his back to the dean, with his hands still behind him, and with
his eyes fixed upon the ground.

"But in this case there is no question of begging," continued the
dean. "I, out of those superfluities which it has pleased God to put
at my disposal, am anxious to assist the needs of those whom I love."

"She is not starving," said Crawley, in a voice very bitter, but
still intended to be exculpatory of himself.

"No, my dear friend; I know she is not, and do not you be angry
with me because I have endeavoured to put the matter to you in the
strongest language I could use."

"You look at it, Arabin, from one side only; I can only look at it
from the other. It is very sweet to give; I do not doubt that. But
the taking of what is given is very bitter. Gift bread chokes in a
man's throat and poisons his blood, and sits like lead upon the
heart. You have never tried it."

"But that is the very fault for which I blame you. That is the pride
which I say you ought to sacrifice."

"And why should I be called on to do so? Is not the labourer worthy
of his hire? Am I not able to work, and willing? Have I not always
had my shoulder to the collar, and is it right that I should now be
contented with the scraps from a rich man's kitchen? Arabin, you
and I were equal once and we were then friends, understanding each
other's thoughts and sympathizing with each other's sorrows. But it
cannot be so now."

"If there be such inability, it is all with you."

"It is all with me,--because in our connexion the pain would all be
on my side. It would not hurt you to see me at your table with worn
shoes and a ragged shirt. I do not think so meanly of you as that.
You would give me your feast to eat though I were not clad a tithe as
well as the menial behind your chair. But it would hurt me to know
that there were those looking at me who thought me unfit to sit in
your rooms."

"That is the pride of which I speak;--false pride."

"Call it so if you will; but, Arabin, no preaching of yours can alter
it. It is all that is left to me of my manliness. That poor broken
reed who is lying there sick,--who has sacrificed all the world to
her love for me,--who is the mother of my children, and the partner
of my sorrows and the wife of my bosom,--even she cannot change me in
this, though she pleads with the eloquence of all he