"I don't know how to begin, sir. My life has had no fairy-tales in it. I have not had a home, as other girls have." "Not had a home!" "I had one when I was a little girl. Mamma lived in a cottage in Devonshire, and I was with her." "So you are a little Devonshire woman?" "No; I was born in India. Mamma brought me over when I was three years old." "And your father?" "He had to stay behind in India. He was in the army. After that he sold out to come home, and died very soon. Mamma died when I was eleven, and since that I have been at school." "Had you no relatives to offer you a home?" "No!" And I felt my face flush as I thought of Mr. Edwin Barley. He must have noticed it: he was looking at me. "No home all those years! How you must long for one!" "I keep my longings down. It may never be my happiness to know a home; certainly there is no present prospect of it. I resign myself to my position, doing my duty, as it is placed before me, and not looking beyond it." "What do you call your 'position'?" "That of a governess." "I should say you are of gentle blood?" "Oh yes." He paused. I paused. I saw that he expected I should tell him something more about myself and my family; and I would willingly have told all, but for having to bring in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Barley. The fear of doing that; of alluding to the dreadful events of the past, clung to me still as a nightmare. Mr. Chandos, who did not fail to detect the reluctance, concluded there must be some reason for it, not expedient to tell; he quitted the subject at once, with the innate delicacy of a refined man, and did not again, then or later, make allusion to my family. "Well, now for the fairy-tales. Begin. If you don't tell me something worth hearing, I shall fall asleep." I laughed; and related to him one or two short anecdotes of my school life, and then remembered the supper-scene at Miss Fenton's, and the setting on fire of Georgina Digges. He had grown interested in that, and we were both talking very fast, when the clock struck ten. I got up and put away the low chair. "Good-night, sir." "Good-night—_miss!_" It made me laugh. He took my hand, kept it for a minute in his, and said he wished me pleasant dreams. "I shall dream of a woman in a grey cloak. But, Mr. Chandos! in one sense, the accident is a good thing for you." "You must explain how. I don't see it." "With that disabled foot you may make sure of uninterrupted rest. There is no fear that you will leave your bed to-night to walk in the moonlight." "You go to bed, and to sleep, and never mind looking for me in the moonlight; to-night, or any other night." His mood had changed; his brow had grown angry, his voice stern. The thought of having alluded to his infirmity brought back all my humiliation. "I beg your pardon, sir," I meekly said. And he released my hand without another word.