things are at the worst, they're sure to mend.
Things can't be much worse, Mr. Franklin, than
they are now."

Mr. Franklin folded up his aunt's letter, without
appearing to be much comforted by the
remark which I had ventured on addressing
to him.

"When I came here from London with that
horrible Diamond," he said, "I don't believe
there was a happier household in England
than this. Look at the household now!
Scattered, disunited—the very air of the place
poisoned with mystery and suspicion! Do
you remember that morning at the Shivering
Sand, when we talked about my uncle
Herncastle, and his birthday gift? The Moonstone
has served the Colonel's vengeance, Betteredge,
by means which the Colonel himself never
dreamt of!"

With that, he shook me by the hand, and
went out to the pony chaise.

I followed him down the steps. It was very
miserable to see him leaving the old place, where
he had spent the happiest years of his life, in this
way. Penelope (sadly upset by all that had
happened in the house) came round crying, to bid
him goodbye. Mr. Franklin kissed her. I waved
my hand as much as to say, "You're heartily
welcome, sir." Some of the other female
servants appeared, peeping after him round the
comer. He was one of those men whom the
women all like. At the last moment, I stopped
the pony chaise, and begged as a favour that
he would let us hear from him by letter. He
didn't seem to heed what I said—he was
looking round from one thing to another, taking
a sort of farewell of the old house and grounds.
"Tell us where you are going to, sir!" I said,
holding on by the chaise, and trying to get at
his future plans in that way. Mr. Franklin
pulled his hat down suddenly over his eyes.
"Going?" says he, echoing the word after me.
"I am going to the devil!" The pony started
at the word, as if he felt a Christian horror of
it. "God bless you, sir, go where you may!"
was all I had time to say, before he was out of
sight and hearing. A sweet and pleasant
gentleman! With all his faults and follies, a sweet
and pleasant gentleman! He left a sad gap
behind him, when he left my lady's house.

It was dull and dreary enough, when the
long summer evening closed in, on that Saturday
night.

I kept my spirits from sinking by sticking
fast to my pipe and my Robinson Crusoe.
The women (excepting Penelope) beguiled the
time by talking of Rosanna's suicide. They
were all obstinately of opinion that the poor
girl had stolen the Moonstone, and that she had
destroyed herself in terror of being found out.
My daughter, of course, privately held fast to
what she had said all along. Her notion of the
motive which was really at the bottom of the
suicide failed, oddly enough, just where my
young lady's assertion of her innocence failed
also. It left Rosanna's secret journey to
Frizinghall, and Rosanna's proceedings in the matter
of the nightgown, entirely unaccounted for.
There was no use in pointing this out to
Penelope; the objection made about as much impression
on her as a shower of rain on a waterproof
coat. The truth is, my daughter inherits my
superiority to reason—and, in respect to that
accomplishment, has got a long way ahead of
her own father.

On the next day (Sunday), the close carriage,
which had been kept at Mr. Ablewhite's, came
back to us empty. The coachman brought a
message for me, and written instructions for
my lady's own maid and for Penelope.

The message informed me that my mistress
had determined to take Miss Rachel to her
house in London, on the Monday. The written
instructions informed the two maids of the
clothing that was wanted, and directed them to
meet their mistresses in town at a given hour.
Most of the other servants were to follow.
My lady had found Miss Rachel so unwilling to
return to the house, after what had happened
in it, that she had decided on going to London
direct from Frizinghall. I was to remain in
the country, until further orders, to look after
things indoors and out. The servants left with
me were to be put on board wages.

Being reminded, by all this, of what Mr.
Franklin had said about our being a scattered
and disunited household, my mind was led
naturally to Mr. Franklin himself. The more I
thought of him, the more uneasy I felt about
his future proceedings. It ended in my writing,
by the Sunday's post, to his father's valet, Mr.
Jeffco (whom I had known in former years) to
beg he would let me know what Mr. Franklin
had settled to do, on arriving in London.

The Sunday evening was, if possible, duller
even than the Saturday evening. We ended
the day of rest, as hundreds ot thousands of
people end it regularly, once a week, in these
islands—that is to say, we all anticipated
bedtime, and fell asleep in our chairs.

How the Monday affected the rest of the
household I don't know. The Monday gave
me a good shake up. The first of Sergeant
Cuff's prophecies of what was to happen—
namely, that I should hear from the Yollands—
came true on that day.

I had seen Penelope and my lady's maid off
in the railway with the luggage for London,
and was pottering about the grounds, when I
heard my name called. Turning round, I found
myself face to face with the fisherman's daughter,
Limping Lucy. Bating her lame foot and
her leanness (this last a horrid drawback to a
woman, in my opinion), the girl had some pleasing
qualities in the eye of a man. A dark, keen,
clever face, and a nice clear voice, and a
beautiful brown head of hair counted among her
merits. A crutch appeared in the list of her
misfortunes. And a temper reckoned high in
the sum total of her defects.

"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you want
with me?"