"I am quite sure you wrong me there. I may as well own that I have taken a fancy to you. I am a spoiled child, and I always have my own way. My present way is to have you here in this snug room for two or three hours daily—you and I working in secret over something grand. I always get my way so your conditions must melt into air. Now, what are they?"
"Dare I tell her?" thought Mrs. Home. Aloud she said, "The conditions are these:—I must tell you a story, a story about myself—and—and others."
"And I love stories, especially when they happen in real life."
"Miss Harman, don't tempt me. I want to tell you, but I had better not; you had better let me go away. You are very happy now, are you not?"
"What a strange woman you are, Mrs. Home! Yes, I am happy."
"You won't like my story. It is possible you may not be happy after you have heard it."
"That is a very unlikely possibility. How can the tale of an absolute stranger affect my happiness?" These words were said eagerly—a little bit defiantly.
But Mrs. Home's face had now become so grave, and there was such an eager, almost frightened look in her eyes, that her companion's too changed. After all what was this tale? A myth, doubtless; but she would hear it now.
"I accept the risk of my happiness being imperiled," she said. "I choose to hear the tale—I am ready."
"But I may not choose to tell," said the other Charlotte.