"What is it, Charley?"
"What, Fanny?" I asked.
"Now, Charley," said she, "you might as well speak out at once. Why was I left, when all the rest were taken, but that you might have at least one that you loved to tell your troubles to? Come, now! Take off that manner of yours; you might as well, for I can see right through it. You will feel better to let everything out,—and then, who knows but I might help you?"
Sure enough. It was strange, considering what Fanny had always been to me, that this had not occurred to my own mind. How natural it seemed now to tell her all about it! What a relief it would be! But how should I begin? I shrank from it. I began to come round to my first position. It seemed as if the corner of my heart which held Rachel was a holy of holies, too sacred to be entered even by my dear, good sister. While I was thinking, she watched my face.
"Ah!" said she, "I see you don't know how to begin, and that I must both listen and talk. Give me your hand. Haven't I got gypsy eyes? I will tell your fortune."
Dear little bright-faced Fanny! I smiled a real smile when she took my hand.
"It is about a girl?" she said, half inquiringly.
I colored, though it was only Fanny, and nodded,—
"Yes."
"You love the girl?" she continued, after a pause.