"Every one else need not know it because you tell me," said Bessie. "Tell Jesus, and ask Him to help you, Gracie."
"Even He can't," said Gracie; "at least—at least—not unless I tell other people who ought to know it."
"Do you mean He would want you to tell it?"
"Yes, I s'pose so," almost whispered Gracie.
Bessie considered a moment. That Gracie was full of a vain, foolish pride and self-conceit, she knew; also that she was not the Gracie of a year or two since; but that she would wrong any one she never dreamed, and she could not imagine any cause for this great distress.
"Gracie," she said, "I think by what you say that you must have done something to me. I can't think what it can be; but I promise not to be angry. I will be friends with you all the same."
"It was not you; no, it was not you; but, Bessie, it was such a dreadful thing and so mean that you never can bear me after you know it. You are so very true yourself."
"Have you told a story?" asked Bessie in a troubled voice.
"Not told a story, but I acted one," sobbed Gracie. "O Bessie! sit down here and let me tell you. I can't keep it in any longer. Maybe you'll tell me what to do; but I know what you'll say, and I can't do that."
Bessie did as she was requested, and, in as few whispered words as possible, Gracie poured her wretched story into her ears.