“I should like to sit on the rug close by you, if I may, and if Jet does not object to my company.”
“He shall be taken away,” said Jet’s mistress, laying her hands on the bell.
“No!” interposed Grace. “I will try to be amiable to him, if he will be tolerant of me,” and she sat down; a pretty picture in the firelight, her black dress disposing itself in graceful folds over the white rug, her hands crossed idly in her lap, and her face upturned to Mrs. Hartley, who, stooping, kissed it almost involuntarily.
“Now who is he?” asked the widow.
“There is no ‘he’ in my story,” Grace answered; “at least no ‘he’ in your sense. I hope you will not be disappointed when I tell you my trouble has nothing to do with love, but a very great deal to do with money.”
“So far, my dear, I think money has been a trouble to you; when you are as old as I am you will understand the trouble of having money is by no means comparable to the trouble of being without it.”
“In this case my money has nothing to do with the story.”
“Then, for mercy’s sake, child, tell me what has to do with it.”
“I have,” Grace answered; “a secret has been confided to me that I do not know how to deal with; a responsibility has been put upon me which makes me wretched. I fully intended when I first came here to tell you all about the matter, but—”
“But what?” asked Mrs. Hartley softly; “this is the light, and you are in the mood for confession, let us get that little ‘but’ out of the way now—for ever.”