“Where shall I begin?” I asked, looking into the most charming of faces, which shone before me.
“How stupid to ask! At the beginning, of course.”
“I was born of poor but honest parents”—I began.
Luella interrupted me with a laugh.
“How absurd you are! Anyhow, you can tell me about that later. Just begin with the San Francisco beginning. Tell me why you came and all about it.”
“Very good,” I said; “though really this part is much longer than the other.”
Then I told her the story of my coming, of the murder of Henry Wilton, of the struggles with death and difficulty that had given the spice of variety to my life since I had come across the continent.
It was an inspiration to have such a listener. Under the encouragement of her sympathy I found an unwonted flow of words and ideas. Laughter and tears shone in her eyes as the ludicrous and sorrowful parts of my experience touched her by turns. And at the end I found—I really don't know how it happened—I found that I was clasping her hand and looking up into her eyes in a trance of intoxication from the subtle magnetism of her lovely presence.
For a minute we were silent.
“Oh,” she cried softly, withdrawing her hand, and looking dreamily away, “I knew it was right—that it must be right. You have justified my faith, and more!”