"When you look at me like that you seem quite kind, but sometimes you don't look very kind; and then, you are not fond of my darling Irene and my dearest Rosamund. I wonder why?"
"Shall I tell you?"
Lucy bent close to the little girl.
"Oh! if it is anything nasty I would rather not know."
"But I think you ought to know about your Irene. Nobody loved her at all—nobody could bear her—until——Why, what is the matter, child?"
"Don't—don't go on; I won't listen," said little Agnes.
Her face was as white as death; her eyes were dilated.
"But I will tell you," said Lucy. "She was the dreadful girl who nearly drowned poor Miss Carter, one of her governess, who is now at the Singletons'. She was the terrible, terrible girl who made your own dear sister swallow live insects instead of pills; she was the awful girl who used to put toads into the bread-pan; and—oh! I can't tell you all the terrific things she did. She is only biding her time to do the same to you. Some people say she isn't a girl at all, but a sort of fairy; and fairies always fascinate people, and when they have made them love them like anything they will turn them into wicked fairies, or something else awful. What is the matter, child?"
For little Agnes was trembling all over. After a minute she got up and made a great effort to steady herself.
"I don't think you should have told me that story," she said. "And I don't believe you."