“Then, Mr. Teesdale, I must ask you whether you're in the habit of telling lies.” David opened his mouth to answer very promptly indeed, but kept it open without answering at all at the moment. He had remembered something that sent his left thumb and forefinger of their own accord into an empty waistcoat pocket. “No,” said he presently with a sigh, “I'm not exactly in the habit of saying what isn't true.” “But you do it sometimes?” “I have done it, God forgive me! But who has not?” “Not me,” cried Missy candidly. “There's not a bigger liar in this world than me! I'm going to tell you about that directly. I'm so glad you've told a lie or two yourself—it gives me such a leg-up—though I never should have thought it of you, Mr. Teesdale. I've told hundreds since I've known you. Have you told any since you've known me?” The question was asked with all the inquisitive sympathy of one discovering a comrade in sin. “I mean not counting the ones you've just been telling me,” added Missy when she got no answer, “about your not being shocked, and all the rest of it.” “That was no falsehood, Missy; that was the truth.” “All right, then, we'll pass that. Have you told any other lies since I've been here? Just whisper, and I promise I won't let on. I do so want to know.” “But why, my dear—but why?” “Because it'll be ever so much easier for me to make my confession when you've made yours.” “Your confession! What can you have to confess, Missy?” The old man chuckled as he patted her hand. “More than you're prepared for. But you must fire first. Have you or have you not told a wicked story since I've been staying here?” Mr. Teesdale cleared his throat and sat upright in his chair. “Missy,” said he solemnly, “the only untruth I can remember telling in all my life, I have told since you have been with us; and I've told it over and over again. Heaven knows why I admit this much to you! I suppose there's something in you, my dear, that makes me say' more than ever I mean to say. But I'm not going to say another word about this—that's flat.” “Good Lord!” murmured Missy. “And you've told it over and over and over again! Oh, do tell me,” she whispered coaxingly; “you might.” “My dear, I've told you too much already.” And old Teesdale would have risen and paced the verandah, but a pair of strong arms restrained him. They were Missy's arms thrown round his neck, and the old man was content to sit still. “Tell me one thing,” she wheedled softly: “had it anything to do with me—that wicked story you've told so often?” Mr. Teesdale was silent.