Perhaps you may not care for my story when you hear it.

I am quite willing to wait for your thanks till you have heard it." "But any way, aunty dear, we'll thank you for having _tried_," said Molly encouragingly.

"I daresay it won't be _quite_ as nice as grandmother's.
You see you're so much younger, and then I don't think anybody _could_ tell stories like her, could they?
But, grandmother dear," she went on, "would you mind telling me one thing?
When people write stories how do they know all the things they tell?
How do you know what poor Mr.Sawyer said to himself when he was alone in his room that day?
Did he ever tell anybody?
I know the story's true, because uncle Jack told it you himself, only I can't make out how you got to know all those bits of it, like." "What a goose you are, Molly!" exclaimed both Ralph and Sylvia.

"How could any stories ever be written if people went on about them like that ?" But Molly's honest puzzled face made grandmother smile.
"I know how you mean, dear," she said, "I used to think like that myself.
No, I don't know _exactly_ the very words Mr.Sawyer said to himself, but, judging from my knowledge of the whole story, I put myself, as it were, in his place, and picture to myself what I would have said.

I told you I had altered it a little.