"I neither gloze nor mask; I simply front the facts, which are, briefly, that you were nurtured in independence and trained to abhor the crumbs that fall from other people's tables, while all heroic aspirations and proud chivalric dreams were fed by the milk that nourished you; whereas, I grew up in the wan, sickly atmosphere of penury; glad to grasp the crust that chance offered; taught to consider the bread of dependence precious as ambrosia; willing to forget family ties that were fraught only with humiliation and wretchedness; coveting bounty that I had not sufficient ambition to merit; and eager to live on charity, as long as it could be coaxed, hoodwinked, or scourged into supporting me comfortably. Yesterday I read a sentence that might have been written for me, so felicitously does it photograph me, 'Temperament is a fate oftentimes, from whose jurisdiction its victims hardly escape, but do its bidding herein, be it murder or martyrdom. Virtues and crimes are mixed in one's cup of nativity, with the lesser or larger margin of choice. _Blood is a destiny._' You, Ulpian Grey, are what you are because your father was a gentleman, and all your surroundings were luxurious and refined; and I, the miller's child, am what you see me because my father was coarse and brutal; because my body and soul struggled with staring starvation,--physical, mental, and moral. Be just, and remember these things when you are tempted to despise me as a pitiable, spiritless parasite." "My little friend, you have most unnecessarily tortured yourself, and grieved and mortified me. Have I ever treated you with contempt or disrespect?" "You evidently pity me, and compassion is about as welcome to my feelings as a vitriol bath to fresh wounds." "Are you not conscious of having more than once acted in such a manner as to necessitate my compassion?" She was silent for some moments; but as they entered the avenue, she said, impetuously,-- "I want you to respect me."