“But now,” she continued, “I will show you the same design in something else;” and she led the way through her own bedroom to Robert’s, which was beyond.  On the threshold she paused, and kissing me, said:  “If you can stay with me to-day, I will tell you the whole story, dear; but I want you to look at this chintz first.”  Then she walked to the window, and drawing out one of the curtains to its full width, held it up for me to see.  It was a green and white chintz, evidently of cheap quality.  At first I did not distinguish any meaning in the pattern; presently I saw that the figures were all of vines and vine-leaves, linked in a fantastic fashion together, like those in the wood-carving on the gold table.

“Oh, yes,” I said, “I see; it is exactly like the carving, only it looks different, being on a flat surface.”

Dora did not speak; she was gazing absently at the chintz she held in her hand.  Her face looked as if her soul were miles and years away.  Presently I saw a tear roll down her cheek.  I touched her hand.  She started, and smiling sweetly, said:  “Oh! forgive me.  Don’t think I am crying for any sorrow; it is for joy.  I am so happy, and my life has been so wonderful.  Now would you really have patience to listen to a long story?” she said, beseechingly; “a long story all about me—­and—­Robert?  I have been wanting to tell you ever since I knew you.  I think you ought to know all about us.”

For my answer, I sank into a large chair, drew her down into my lap, and said:  “Begin, you dearest child.  Nothing could give me such pleasure.  Begin at the beginning.”

She slipped from my lap to a low footstool at my feet, and resting both her arms on my knees in a graceful way she had, looked up into my face, and began by a sentence which made me start.

“I used to work in a factory.”  My start was so undisguised, so uncontrollable, that Dora drew back and her cheeks turned red.

“Perhaps I ought to have told you before.”

“Oh, my dear, beautiful, marvellous child!” I exclaimed; “you cannot so misjudge me.  I was startled only because you had always seemed to me so much like one born to all possible luxury.  I supposed you had been nurtured on beauty.”

“So I have been,” she replied, earnestly, smiling through tears; “nevertheless, three years ago I was working in a factory in America.”

I did not interrupt her again; hour after hour passed by; not until twilight was deepening into dusk did the story come to end.  I shall try to give it in Dora’s own words—­their simplicity adds so much to it; but I cannot give the heightened effect with which they fell upon my ears as I looked down into her sweet child-woman’s face.