“Thank you. I don’t see many people so young—except the children. I tell them stories sometimes.”
“But you won’t like me,” said Gypsy.
“I rather think I shall.”
“No you won’t,” said Gypsy, shaking her head decidedly; “not a bit. I know you won’t. I’m silly,—well, I’ll tell you what I am by-and-by. First, I want to hear all about you,—everything, I mean,” she added, with a quick delicacy, of which, for “blundering Gypsy,” she had a great deal,—“everything that you care to tell me.”
“Why, I’ve nothing to tell,” said Peace, smiling, “cooped up here all the time; it’s all the same.”
“That’s just what I want to hear about. About the being cooped up. I don’t see how you bear it!” said Gypsy, impetuously.
Peace smiled again. Gypsy had a fancy that the smile had stolen one of the sunbeams that lay in such golden, flickering waves, upon the bed.
Too much self-depreciation is often a sign of the extremest vanity. Peace had nothing of this. Seeing that Gypsy was in earnest in her wish to hear her story, she quietly began it without further parley. It was very simple, and quickly told.
“We used to live on a farm on the mountains—father and mother and I. There were a great many cattle, and so much ground it tired me to walk across it. I always went to school, and father read to us in the evenings. I suppose that’s the way I’ve learned to love to read, and I’ve been so glad since. I was pretty small when they died,—first father, then mother. I remember it a little; at least I remember about mother,—she kissed me so, and cried. Then Aunt Jane came for me, and brought me here. We lived in a pleasant house up the street, at first. I used to work in the mill, and earned enough to pay aunt what I cost her. Then one day, when I was thirteen years old, we were coming out at noon, all of us girls, in a great hurry and frolic, and I felt sick and dizzy watching the wheels go round, and,—well, they didn’t mean to,—but they pushed me, and I fell.”
“Down stairs?”