"I will tell you a story," said Christian suddenly, "and it's all about myself."
"A story—that's good!" cried Agnes Temple, a look of satisfaction crossing her commonplace little face. "I love stories about people." Then, fixing her eyes on her companion's face, she said, "I like Christian Mitford—don't you?"
"Please don't talk any more in that whisper," suddenly exclaimed Star. "Now then, Christian, we will not compel your confidence to-night. It might have been," she continued, glancing round at her fellows, "anything. It might mean an accident to the head or to the heart, in which case it would be extremely dangerous to press for an explanation. You shall tell us just what you like, Christian," she continued, "only don't draw on your imagination if you can help it."
"What I tell you will be true," answered Christian, "only I don't suppose any of you will believe me. I am an only child. All my days I should have been terribly lonely but for my attic."
"Oh, dear!" cried Maud Thompson; "perhaps she has belonged to other secret societies. She would have been very lonely but for her attic. Please tell us all about your attic."
"I will," said Christian, "if you won't interrupt."
She then proceeded to give a vivid picture of her early days. She described her life so that the girls who listened no longer interrupted with silly words or sarcastic remarks; they were so interested that they forgot themselves. Christian spoke of her doll days, then of her fairy-story days, and last of her heroic days. When she got to the subject of Joan of Arc it seemed to the girls that no history had ever been so thrilling.
"It was one dreadful dark day," she continued, suddenly rising to her feet and forgetting about everything but that picture of the past which was rising up in her mind. "There was snow outside, and I thought and I thought, and it seemed to me that I was Joan and in prison. I thought I would put on the armor which was to be my undoing. I saw myself in it, and I was glad and not at all afraid. And then—and then—there came the trial. Oh! it lasted so long, and I seemed to live through it all. I was condemned to death. I saw myself; I was there. I was burnt, and I did go through it all."
"Oh, nonsense!" here cried Mary Hillary. "Your head must be affected."
"No, no; I did go through it all in imagination," said Christian. "I made it, too, as realistic as possible. There was an old, old bedstead, and one of the posts was broken. I bound myself to the post—yes, with real chains, too; they belonged to a dog we used to keep in a kennel. They were rusty, but that did not matter. And I piled up papers round me, all torn up in great pieces; and I had some red paper to imitate the color of the flames. I made the paper come higher and higher, and I fancied I saw a crowd, and I was burned."