perfectly myself, I don't suppose I can get you to understand."

"Oh, yes! my deary, I'm very smart indeed at picking up a tale. You
tell me all about Lovedy, Cecile."

Thus admonished, Cecile did tell her tale. All that long sad story
which the dying woman had poured into the child's listening ears was
now told again to the wondering and excited cook. Jane listened with
her mouth open and her eyes staring. If there was anything under the
sun she dearly, dearly loved, it was a romance, and here was one
quite unknown in her experience. Cecile told her little story in
childish and broken words--words which were now and then interrupted
by sobs of great pain--but she told it with the power which
earnestness always gives.

"I'll never find Lovedy now; I've broken my promise--I've broken my
promise," she said in conclusion.

"Well," answered Jane, drawing a long breath when the story was
over, "that is interesting, and the queerest bit of a tale I ever set
my two ears to listen to. Oh, yes! I believes you, child. You ain't
one as'll tell lies--and that I'm gospel sure on. And so yer poor
stepmother wanted you not to let Lydia Purcell clap her eyes on that
purse. Ah, poor soul! she knew her own sister well."

"Yes, Jane, she said I'd never see it again if Aunt Lydia found it
out. Oh, Jane! I did think I had hid the purse so very, very secure."

"And so you had, deary--real beautiful, and if it hadn't been for
that horrid inventory, it might ha' lain there till doomsday. But now