"John," said the Mistress of the House, "I hear you tell a very good story, and I want you to tell me one. Let us find a shady place."
There was a pretty summer-house on the upper terrace, a shady place where the air was cool and the view was fine; and there they went: but there was no need of John Gayther's making any pretence of trimming up pea-sticks this time.
"I have a story," said he, his stool at a respectful distance from the two ladies, who were seated on a bench outside the little house.
"Is it about yourself?" asked the Daughter of the House.
"No, miss, not this time," he answered.
"I am sorry for that," she said, "for I like to think of people doing the things they tell about. But I suppose we can't have that every time."
"Oh, no," said her mother; "and if John has an interesting story about anybody else, let him tell it."
The gardener began promptly. "The name of this story is 'The Lady in the Box,'" said he, "and, with the exception of the lady, the principal personage in it was a young man who lived in Florence toward the end of the last century."
"And how did you come to know the story?" asked the Daughter of the House. "Has it ever been told before?"
Now there was need to assert himself, if John Gayther did not wish to lose grace with his hearers, and he was equal to the occasion. "It has never been printed," said he, quietly but boldly. "It came to me in the most straightforward way, step by step."