There was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea's voice as she spoke these

last words. But she presently added, more cheerfully, "Pray come to

Lowick and tell us more of this. I will mention the subject to Mr.

Casaubon. I must hasten home now."

She did mention it that evening, and said that she should like to

subscribe two hundred a-year--she had seven hundred a-year as the

equivalent of her own fortune, settled on her at her marriage. Mr.

Casaubon made no objection beyond a passing remark that the sum might

be disproportionate in relation to other good objects, but when

Dorothea in her ignorance resisted that suggestion, he acquiesced. He

did not care himself about spending money, and was not reluctant to

give it. If he ever felt keenly any question of money it was through

the medium of another passion than the love of material property.

Dorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of

her conversation with him about the Hospital. Mr. Casaubon did not

question her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what

had passed between Lydgate and himself. "She knows that I know," said

the ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge

only thrust further off any confidence between them. He distrusted her

affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?




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