“I will begin at the beginning first of all, and tell you how I saved Ray Chester’s life,” she said, softly, and, as before, her voice seemed to linger over that name like a caress.
Miss Stirling did not answer a word. She sat still and pale, listening, with a horrible presentiment of what was coming, and a hatred for innocent Leola, a jealous hatred that was more bitter than death.
Leola, still playing with her roses, in bashful confusion, looked down with the curly lashes sweeping her rosy cheeks, and told her story briefly, sweetly, and with the simplicity of strong emotion, dwelling but lightly on her own heroism in saving Ray Chester’s life, and touching, reservedly, on their love-story, but bringing into prominence his confession that he had fallen so desperately in love with her pictures that he had come to seek her and offer his love.
She concluded, gently:
“And although Ray has never once mentioned your name, he did not deny it when I said that I was sure it was you from whom he got the pictures; and, Jessie, dear, I am so glad you took those little snap-shots of me, for through them has come the happiness of my life, and I shall always be glad Ray saw them and loved me!”
The musical voice ceased speaking, but as Jessie made no answer, Leola added, ardently:
“He is only a poor artist, my darling Ray, but I am glad, after all, that he is poor, for he knows I love him for himself alone, for ‘his own true worth,’ as the poem says, you know, Jessie.”
She gave a violent start when Miss Stirling answered, in a hoarse, concentrated voice of hatred and bitterness:
“You are a silly little fool, Leola Mead!”
“Oh, Jessie!” and Leola’s voice trembled with wounded feeling.