"Be careful not to break the china, Jane," advised Mrs. Belknap, with housewifely care. "In what capacity were you employed by this Mrs. or Madam—what was the name?"
"I don't know," confessed Jane, with desperate frankness. "She told me her name was Markle; afterwards she said it was Melbrun."
Mrs. Belknap shook her head, as she again glanced seriously at the name with which she had just headed the clear, new page in her book of accounts. "I cannot understand," she said strongly, "why people should lie about their names, or, indeed, about anything. It is so much more sensible to tell the truth. That is what I often tell Mary: 'Do tell me the truth, Mary,' I say to her. But I fear she never does."
"What, never?" exclaimed Jane, unconsciously plagiarizing from a comic opera.
"It is a habit, I fear," said Mrs. Belknap in a depressed tone, "telling falsehoods, I mean; some persons tell them when they might just as well tell the truth, even from their own standpoint. Of course," she added hastily, "it is always right and best to tell the exact truth. I hope, Jane, that you are a truthful girl. You will get on much better with me if you are. Now what did you do for this person for whom you last worked?"
"I smuggled," said Jane shortly.
"You—what?"
"Smuggled," repeated Jane; "I smuggled lace—five thousand dollars worth, the man said. Mrs. Markle sewed it in my jacket between the lining and the outside. But they found it and took it away."
Mrs. Belknap looked actually frightened for a minute. "I—I don't believe it," she murmured weakly.
"I didn't know Mrs. Markle put the lace there," Jane went on firmly. "She gave me a beautiful fur coat to wear on the ship, and asked me to leave my jacket in her stateroom. She sewed the lace in the jacket during the voyage."