He stepped into the presence of the girl. She rose from the low chair by the fire, and the honest eyes looked angrily at him.
“Look here,” he said, as the door closed between them and the maid-servant, “I’ve come to tell you things. Just this once let me talk to you; and afterwards, if you like, I can go away and never come back.”
“Sit down,” she said coldly. “I don’t feel friends with you at all, but if you want to speak, I suppose you must.”
So then he told her everything, beginning with his brother’s letter, and ending with his brother’s letter.
“And, of course, I thought it couldn’t be you, because of your being called Celia; and when I found out it really was you, I had to go away, because I wanted to be fair to the boy. But now I’ve come back.”
“I think you’re the meanest person I ever knew,” she said; “you thought I liked your brother, and you tried to make me like you so that you might throw me over and show him how worthless I was. I hate you and despise you.”
“I didn’t really try,” he said miserably.
“And you took a false name to deceive us.”
“I didn’t: it really is my second name.”
