heart beating. How much she needed, how keenly she
longed for that easily earned money. "I must not think of it," she said,
however, shaking her head. "I confess I want money, but I must earn it
elsewhere. I cannot come here. My husband will only allow me to do so on
a certain condition. I cannot even tell you the condition--certainly I
cannot fulfil it, therefore I cannot come."

"Oh! but that is exciting. _Do_ tell it to me."

"If I did you would be the first to say I must never come to this house
again."

"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.

"I would make you. You have begun--begun in such a way that you _must_
finish."

"Is that so?" replied Mrs. Home. The light was growing more and more
eager in her eyes. She said to herself, "The die is cast." There rose up
before her a vision of her children--of her husband's thin face. Her
voice trembled.

"Miss Harman--I will speak--you won't interrupt me?"

"No, but lunch is on the table. You must eat something first."

"I am afraid I cannot with that story in prospect; to eat would choke
me!"

"What a queer tale