The thing that touched her most was the girl's innocent trust in her sincerity--her taking for granted that this stranger, who had been polite to her, had been so not for worldly good breeding's sake, but from true friendliness and extreme generosity of nature. Her first shyness conquered, she related her whole history with the unreserve of a child. Her father was a farmer, and she had always lived with him on his farm. He had been too fond of her to allow her to leave home, and she had never been "away to school." "He has made a pet of me at home," she said. "I was the only one that lived to be over eight years old. I am the eleventh. Ten died before I was born, and it made father and mother worry a good deal over me--and father was worse than mother. He said the time never seemed to come when he could spare me. He is very good and kind--is father," she added, in a hurried, soft-voiced way. "He's rough, but he's very good and kind." Before they parted for the night Miss Ferrol had the whole genealogical tree by heart. They were an amazingly prolific family, it seemed. There was Uncle Josiah, who had ten children, Uncle Leander, who had fifteen, Aunt Amanda, who had twelve, and Aunt Nervy, whose belongings comprised three sets of twins and an unlimited supply of odd numbers. They went upstairs together and parted at Miss Ferrol's door, their rooms being near each other. The girl held out her hand. "Good-night!" she said. "I'm so thankful I've got to know you." Her eyes looked bigger and wider-open than ever; she smiled, showing her even, sound, little white teeth. Under the bright light of the lamp the freckles the day betrayed on her smooth skin were not to be seen. "Dear me!" thought Miss Ferrol. "How startlingly pretty, in spite of the cotton lace and the dreadful polonaise!" She touched her lightly on the shoulder. "Why, you are as tall as I am!" she said. "Yes," the girl replied, depressedly; "but I'm twice as broad." "Oh no--no such thing." And then, with a delicate glance down over her, she said--"It is your dress that makes you fancy so. Perhaps your dressmaker does not understand your figure,"--as if such a failing was the most natural and simple thing in the world, and needed only the slightest rectifying. "I have no dressmaker," the girl answered. "I make my things myself. Perhaps that is it." "It is a little dangerous, it is true," replied Miss Ferrol. "I have been bold enough to try it myself, and I never succeeded. I could give you the address of a very thorough woman if you lived in New York." "But I don't live there, you see. I wish I did. I never shall, though. Father could never spare me." Another slight pause ensued, during which she looked admiringly at Miss Ferrol. Then she said "good-night" again, and turned away. But before she had crossed the corridor she stopped. "I never told you my name," she said.