"Do you mean that he does not have enough to eat ?" "Of bread he may, but not much better nourishment.

His salary, as organist, is thirty pounds, and he gets a little stray teaching.

But he has his wife and children to keep, and no doubt serves them before himself.

I dare say he scarcely knows what it is to taste meat." The words brought a bitter pang to Lady Isabel.
"Not enough to eat! Never to taste meat!" And she, in her carelessness, her ignorance, her indifference--she scarcely knew what term to give it--had not thought to order him a meal in their house of plenty! He had walked from West Lynne, occupied himself an hour with her piano, and set off to walk back again, battling with his hunger.

A word from her, and a repast had been set before him out of their superfluities such as he never sat down to, and that word she had not spoken.
"You are looking grave, Lady Isabel." "I'm taking contrition to myself.