'I am certain,' she said, 'that you are doing something secretly. For the last three or four weeks you have shut yourself in here night after night, for hours together. Now I want to know all about it.' I did not wish her to see the sketch until it was quite finished; but as she knelt by my side, and as my box was open, I could not prevent her from discovering it. 'O Chris!' she cried. It's beautiful!' And she expressed such praise of it that my heart thrilled with delight. 'You think it's like you, then, Jessie?' 'Like me! It's _me_--me, myself! Set it on the box there; I'll show you.' And with a rapid movement she altered the fashion of her hair to suit my picture, and assumed the exact expression I had chosen. She looked very bewitching as she stood before me, the living embodiment of my work. Then she knelt before the box again, and praised the picture still more warmly, analysing it with exclamations of pleasure. While she was talking and admiring herself; she was tossing over the contents of my box, when she came upon the only legacy my grandmother had left me--the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, which the old lady had solemnly confided to my care. From the day I had entered uncle Bryan's house it had lain in my box, and by this time I had almost forgotten it; but as Jessie held it up and turned it about, my mind was strangely stirred by those reminiscences of my early life with which it was inseparably connected. 'What a curious image?' exclaimed Jessie. 'How long have you had it?' 'All my life, Jessie. Put it away; it's the ugliest thing that ever was seen.' 'I don't think so. It's funny; look at it, wagging its head. Why, you seem quite frightened of it! Well, then, I shall take it, and keep it in my room.' 'No, I mustn't part with it. It was given to me by my grandmother, and she said that it must be kept always in the family. Not that I think much of what she said.' Jessie shifted her position, and seated herself very comfortably upon the floor. 'Now you've got something to tell me,' she said, pulling me down beside her. 'I've never heard of your grandmother before, and you know how fond I am of stories.' 'But mine is not a story, And there's nothing interesting to tell.' 'Oh, yes, there is; there must be. Everybody's life is full of stories.' 'Yours, Jessie?' I put the question somewhat timorously. 'Perhaps,' she answered gravely; and added, after a short pause, 'But we're not speaking of me; we're speaking of you. I want to know everything.'